The Silver Boy and the Webs of Versace
by AugustusNero7
Summary: Harry Potter likes his life. Head of Versace Department region Britain, he has loads of time to spend goofing around, doing nothing but having fun. But when a small mission gets complicated, and a truly staggering prophecy becomes known, Harry halts his life on the street in order to avenge his loved ones. Disclaimer: I own none of the characters. Except the OC's obviously! Review!
1. Foiled Checkup

In a gloomy insulated kitchen, a large crowd had congregated around a large circular table. At the head of the table, a silver haired man sat—a morose slump about him and an odd desolate glint in his blue eyes behind half-moon spectacles.

He sighed, his eyes flickering over people from second to second. His gaze finally settled on a pale, sallow skinned man seated adjacent him. "What is Voldemort—" A queer shudder past through most of the occupants of the table. The man shook his head and heaved a sigh. "What is our little issue up to?"

The pale man straightened in his seat, evidently insouciant to the varying—hostile and invigorating—glances at him. He glanced sideways at the man who had queried him, looking him directly in the eye. "Our little issue—"

Little sniggers broke out.

The man sneered and continued, "He is of the opinion that victory in this war is ascertained." Little murmurs broke out, pacified by a hand held up the silver haired man at the head of the table. He gestured for the pale bloke to proceed with his report. "He appears apathetic to the recent mass loss of allies."

"Recent?" Someone questioned, followed by several unruly guffaws. "Whoever that person is—Merlin bless him. Why we aren't out there helping him, I don't know."

"Hear, hear," several murmured in agreement.

"Sirius, please," the old man reprimanded in a weak voice, glowering at the speaker. "Go on, Severus."

"I have nothing else to add," the man, Severus, said, leaning back into his seat—ignoring the sniffs of disdain that erupted. "Is this meeting over then, Headmaster." His gaze settled on the man who'd interrupted him. "Unlike others who have the comfort of home to hide behind—"

"Hide?" the man snarled furiously, pushing to his feet. He pointed a tremulous finger at Severus. "You call this place," a pained expression crossed his face, "a home. This is a prison, you slimy—"

"Sirius," the silver haired man interrupted in a steady voice. His crystal blue eyes shone with intensity behind his glasses. "Sit down," he instructed. Sirius scowled at him, but heeded his instruction.

"Now, any updates on the elusive Mr. Potter?"

The reaction was immediate. People shifted anxiously in their seats, glancing at each other—perturb clearly etched on their faces. "Why are we still searching for him anyway, Dumbledore? It's obvious the brat was disposed off immediately after being captured," Snape said.

An uproar ensued. Sirius rose to his feet, shaking with anger. By his side, a thin brown haired man had abandoned his seat, clenching his fists and shaking his head as if to convince himself not to thump Snape. Others had also jumped to their feet, shouting themselves hoarse at the pale man—who looked quite unbothered by this. In fact, he appeared content to simply sit back and admire his work.

"Enough," Dumbledore cried, resembling a portrait of cold fury. The room suddenly seemed sultry and too humid. People tugged at the hems of their robes as if considering stripping themselves of a few articles of clothing, all the while eschewing those piercing, electric blue eyes. "Take your seats!" the old man commanded.

Everyone immediately obeyed.

"Updates, anyone...?!"

Nobody responded. It was deathly silent for a while. Then, a man with short legs and straggly long ginger hair shakily rose to his feet. "I know where Harry Potter is," he said—as if in a trance.

Pandemonium swiftly followed—a fleeting one, abruptly terminated when Dumbledore rose his hand to quell the indignant bedlam. He fixed his gaze on the stout man who'd spoken out, intently scrutinizing him. "Astounding," he murmured, an impressed tone latched in his voice. He straightened in his seat, ignoring the bewildered and curious gazes from the others surrounding the edges of the table. "Now, where is Mr. Potter, Mundungus Fletcher?"

* * *

Harry scowled as he dug into his jeans shorts pocket. He rose his other hand to obstruct the path of the sun, who it seemed was determined to fry him by the end of summer. He pulled out a pear-shaped mirror, the screen flashing with a recent Whisper from Draco Malfoy.

Sup?

Harry shook his head and swiped the Whisper away. He leaned back into the brick wall behind him and Whispered a reply back. He might as well lax back and enjoy himself as he waited for Fletcher. And the sight of some sexy luscious pedestrians sauntering by was just an added bonus. Meeting with Fletcher for a report.

Fletcher.

Fun?

Total opposite. U?

Total opposite. Duh.

Harry chuckled. He'd almost completed typing in a reply when the distinct odor of cigars assaulted his nose. He hastily Whispered in a goodbye and stashed the mirror back into his pocket.

He snapped his head up, expecting to find Fletcher ambling towards him. But he didn't. Then where was the stench of those cigars coming from? It was certainly not emitting of the ladies sashaying past.

His instincts screamed to immediately utilize the phenomenal spell Theodore had created seven months ago and make a hurried escape. They'd never been wrong. They'd be fucking spot on two months ago when he'd decided he must be going barmy. Of course, the result had been a hour duel with the Dark Lord. He'd never criticize his instincts again, he'd promised—but right now, how could he not contradict his instincts.

There was nobody in sight. Cars hurdled down the road; some miscreant teenager stuck his head out of his vehicle to scream, "Summer, baby." Harry's eyes were efficacious, thank you very much. He couldn't detect any potential combatant in his current vicinity.

So why was his skin tingling with adrenaline?

He run a frustrated hand through his hair. He could always contact Fletcher some time later, he conceded. Decision made, he broke into a brisk walk and headed towards the Leaky Cauldron. Perhaps after a bottle of fire-whiskey, his reliable rationality would return to him.

* * *

"Potter, for the last time, I demand you answer my question?" his latest interrogator snarled at him, her lips set in a thin line as she paced the room.

"Not bloody likely," Harry retorted, just to spite the witch. Of course, to quench his anger as well. It wasn't very nice to hold someone prisoner for hours, he'd recently discovered.

She ceased pacing and stared at him. She harrumphed loudly and sniffed at him in disdain. "You're nothing like your parents."

He felt his eyes morph color. He felt his temperature mount. He felt the predator in him awaken. He felt a desperate need to lash out and attack her. But he resisted. It would be futile. To begin with, he was incapacitated and bound in a chair—admittedly a comfy one. And showing emotions in front of strangers was for weaklings.

And he most definitely wasn't a weakling.

So instead, he permitted his lips to curl. "We're all entitled to our opinions." He let his gaze rake her body and forced a plausible sneer. She really was quite desirable.

She scowled at him and made to reply but was interrupted by a streak of silver that whizzed in through the wall. It morphed into a small household cat. "Dumbledore has arrived," a stern voice said. The patronus dissipated in a splash.

A patronus, Harry knew. And his life was so much more difficult with arguably the most powerful wizard ever about to interrogate him. He closed his eyes, taking a moment to straighten his Occulmency shields—and patch up his poker face. When he opened his eyes, he saw his interrogator smirking at him, ostensibly savoring his quandary.

"Who are you anyway?" Harry growled.

She flashed him perfect white teeth. "I am Hestia Jones."

Harry shrugged. "Haven't heard about you."

Her smile was definitely amorous. "I'm relatively young."

Young enough to be shagged? "How—"

The door creaked open. A man with an imposing stature ambled in, a benign smile on his face, eyes twinkling merrily behind half-moon glasses.

Dumbledore!

The ancient and revered wizard whipped out a thin, long wand from his robe and conjured a stuffy sofa. He eased into the chair, stuffing his wand back into his eccentric robe. He nodded at Hestia. "Good day, Hestia." He put up a thoughtful expression. "Anything you found?"

Hestia shook her head, glaring at Harry. "Mulishly reticent, sir."

Dumbledore chuckled, perusing Harry in a fraught manner. The man appeared to be pulling out all his intimate secrets. He felt bare and naked. His fear bubbled up in the pit of his stomach. It was arduous work, but he managed to swallow it down. He couldn't show fear. He couldn't reveal anything, period!

"Please leave us, Hestia,"Dumbledore commanded.

"Of course." She glanced hesitantly at Harry before strolling out. She paused at the door, and Harry winked at her—hoping to fluster her. She blushed crimson and scurried out of the room. Harry felt his heart warm and once again sent a silent thanks to his father for the rakish looks that he'd inherited.

Dumbledore's long beard twitched. "Apparently you have a way with the witches, Harry."

Harry shrugged, recognizing the old man's attempt to lighten the mood. "Not just the witches." He'd keep it light—for now. But he'd also maintain his guard. The last thing he needed right now was a gaffe. He'd never envisaged he could be found—never even considered the possibility. He'd been confident in his abilities. But now he realized he might have been a little too cocky when dealing with Fletcher.

Dumbledore's eyebrow flew. "Myriad preferences? How odd."

Was he insinuating Harry was gay? "I am merely trying to explain that I also spend time with muggle females." He looked up at Dumbledore, successfully batting off the man's mental incursion. He sneered at the man. "Pathetic."

He leaned back into his seat, trying to convey a sense of casualness—so as to push the man towards a blunder. But from the tranquil look on the old man's face, his tactics would need improvement. Dumbledore was no amateur.

"Do you know who I am?"

Was that a joke? Of course, he did. Which wizard or witch wasn't aware of the identity of Dumbledore. With an absurd number of titles to his name—Defeater of Grindewald, Headmaster of the most prestigious magical school, etc.—it was no wonder his name was so well known. And being the only wizard Voldemort ever truly was wary of, the man was even more in the news with the acknowledged—finally!—return of the Dark Lord.

"I suppose you're a delusional old man," he quipped.

Dumbledore chuckled, leaning back into his stuffy sofa. "No, I am not delusional." He adopted a thoughtful expression. "Odd, you're not the first to assume that—"

"I wonder why," Harry muttered resentfully, his gaze raking Dumbledore's purple cloak.

Dumbledore smiled and clapped his hands together. "I am Professor Dumbledore—"

Harry rolled his eyes. "Obviously," Harry said unctuously.

Dumbledore shook his head. "Anyway, I am currently headmaster of Hogwarts—"

"I know who you are, Dumbledore," Harry snarled, cutting off the man.

Dumbledore beamed brightly. "Excellent." He leaned forward. "Now, we can get serious." He cleared his throat. "Where have you been for the past seven years—if you don't mind?"

"Oh, but I do mind," Harry retorted.

Dumbledore heaved a huge sigh and sagged back into his seat. "Why won't you trust me, Harry?"

"Oh, I don't know. Maybe because you just tried to breach my mental defenses without my consent," he said sarcastically.

Dumbledore sighed. "I detected an ornery block emitting of you and simply attempted to bring this to your notice." He shook his head at Harry, a distraught expression on his face. "I was merely trying to help," he said hopelessly.

He really was quite the actor. The forlorn look on his face. The defeated glint in his eyes. The despondent slump in his shoulders. It was a sensational combination. But it was obviously just an pretence. A masquerade to persuade Harry to relax. And it wouldn't work. "Your help wasn't required."

"We are on the same side, you know," Dumbledore reminded him—apparently abandoning the despairing grandfather pursuing a relationship with his grandson.

Harry run his hands through his hair, ruffling it up. "What side is that?" He was playing dumb.

"The Light Side. It includes several notable magical figures including," Dumbledore caught Harry's eye—though on this occasion Dumbledore did not attempt a mental probe—"your parents."

A worthy attempt to rattle him, Harry conceded. "Fascinating," he drawled.

"It is," Dumbledore agreed with much more fervor than Harry had anticipated. Harry cocked an eyebrow. Dumbledore continued, leaning forward, an urgency about him that bothered Harry, "You are pivotal to Voldemort's defeat, Harry."

Well, duh. "I'm aware."

Dumbledore nodded and offered a small smile. He waved his hand and muttered a few words under his breath. Harry recognized the hand motions to an intricate warding enchantment.

"Now that you have consented to return—"

"Excuse me," Harry interrupted. "Consented to return?"

Dumbledore's beard twitched—and a twinkle blossomed in Dumbledore's eyes. He cleared his throat, looking quite uncomfortable. "Er, perhaps not my best sentence."

Harry scowled at him. A silence stretched between them. Dumbledore remained silent, evidently lost in contemplation whilst Harry glowered at him.

"There is a prophecy," Dumbledore suddenly said.

Harry blinked—the only emotion he evinced to the statement. "A prophecy?" he asked dubiously. What a lame tactic. And odd. He hadn't forecasted this. Perhaps, he'd over-estimated Dumbledore.

Dumbledore nodded sorrowfully. "I'm afraid I had ample reason for retrieving you, Mr. Potter."

Harry snorted. "Right."

"You obviously have no reason to believe me. You are here against your will and have been interrogated beyond belief. I fear I only added to your reasonable anger when I endeavored to lure you into dropping the steel guard you have in regard to me."

Harry shrugged. He had nothing to add. Everything the old man had uttered was accurate. Dead-on accurate.

Dumbledore continued, "But I speak the truth, you see." He waved his hand in the air, and words formed at his touch to form a little poem.

The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches... born to those who have thrice defied him, born as the seventh month dies... and the Dark Lord shall mark him as his equal, but he will have the power the Dark Lord knows not... and either must die at the hand of the other for neither can live while the other survives...

"What was that?" Harry asked, shell-shocked. His brain was screaming that he was the person the poem referred to. But he refused to accept. It had to be a mistake. An error. Or something...

Over the rushing roar of waves in his ear, he barely caught Dumbledore's reply. The man seemed too nonchalant for a person who'd just quite possibly altered another's life. Then again—as Dumbledore—such things were probably the norm. "That was a prophecy made seventeen years ago."

"Is that why you and your barmy Order have been searching for me this long?" he asked. Dumbledore frowned, apparently not pleased by his description of the Order of Phoenix, but nodded.

"Yes, that's the motive—to prepare you for Voldemort."

"What the hell!" he exclaimed in shock.

"You are the one destined to defeat the Dark Lord," Dumbledore explained patiently, his eyes expressing deep sorrow. He shook his head sadly. "It's a huge burden and now I hope you understand why I put in desperate efforts to retrieve you once I noticed you had escaped your relatives home seven years ago."

It all made sense now. The relentless hunt for him. Not just from Dumbledore. He'd had his own share of encounters with Death Eaters—and six times now with Voldemort or some configuration of the dark wizard. He'd assured himself the only reason Voldemort still pursued him was because the Dark Lord craved to complete the annihilation of the Potters. But now he knew that wasn't exactly true. He was wanted by both sides. He'd always been well aware. Now, at least he knew why.

He was destined to defeat Voldemort. Or die trying.

Should he, though? Or should he instead remain hidden. Continue to employ the method that had carried him through three years of Voldemort's return. But, he admitted to himself—chancing a look at Dumbledore—he didn't have a choice, really. Would they allow him to leave? He doubted it.

He averted his eyes.

But did he want to escape back to his life, though? The answer had him staggered. An overwhelming No! Inordinate enough to quench the raging fire of his logic struggling to object.

How could he ignore it?! Even without the prophecy, he'd been fighting. Just for a chance to satiate the fierce desire to rage at everything in sight. The man (no, demon) who'd killed his parents was on another fulmination. Well, this time he planned to halt the march!

His parent's sacrifices would not be ignored. He wouldn't brush his concerns aside and simply party with his friends or shag a random girl—all in the forlorn hope to forget the issues he had to encounter regularly.

He would fight. Not just Death Eaters, like he'd been doing with the Versace. No, he was taking the fight to Voldemort. It was asinine, he knew. Voldemort was extremely powerful. In each of their six meetings, he'd barely escaped alive. But he had escaped. No matter how slim the chances of another escape was, or the chances he'd be able to snuff Voldemort's life, he was going to at least attempt it.

A smile touched his lips as he turned back to Dumbledore, noting the rapt attention that Dumbledore studied him with. He could imagine Draco's and Theodore's vehement protesting to his decision. But that was it. It was his decision. Not theirs. Not a group thing. Just his. Alone. Because they didn't have a gaping hole in their heart for the mother and father they never had the opportunity to meet. Or hear their laugh. Or experience their love. They didn't have to settle for stories and old portraits. Because they weren't him—no matter how strong their friendship was.

Dumbledore offered a small—comforting—smile. "Will you fight Voldemort?"

Harry took in a deep breath, closing his eyes as he frantically tried to conceal the discord of emotions running through his head—his head hanging down. "I'll do it," he said tonelessly. "I'll kill Voldemort once and for all." He glanced up to catch Dumbledore's reaction.

The headmaster blinked, evidently baffled by Harry's swift response. His eyes brightened and his twinkle . He beamed at Harry. "A Potter indeed."

Harry rolled his eyes. He had a death sentence and this mad old man was over here was enunciating hogwash. Ruddy brilliant! He needed a drink—the one that he'd been denied at the Leaky Cauldron.

Dumbledore's gaze became criticizing. "You know how dangerous this is?"

"Weren't you the one who tried to convince me of this?" Harry snapped angrily. He'd made his decision and it was final. He had no intentions of altering it no matter the purpose—regardless of outsider's opinions.

"He is very dangerous, Harry."

He was a Dark Lord, wasn't he? "I know that, Captain Obvious, but thank you for bringing it to my attention."

Dumbledore frowned. "Captain Obvious? What—" he shook his head, "—I believe you stand a good chance, Harry." His gaze swept across Harry and a miniscule scowl ensued. "Not what I expected," he murmured. He beamed at Harry. "Much better than I expected, actually."

What a quirky man. Draco had frequently informed Harry of Dumbledore's peculiar attitude but he'd dismissed this—unable to find a scenario where one of the most powerful wizards of all time could be mentally unhinged. The evidence, though, stared him right in the face. Perhaps he owed Draco an apology.

Dumbledore rubbed his hand together and rose from his seat. With a casual wave of his hand, the stuffy chair disappeared. He walked past Harry and dawdled towards the door. He lagged behind, his back to Harry. "There's the little issue of where you'll be staying over the summer."

Harry obstructed a smirk he felt developing—time to make an escape. "I could stay at Hogwarts," he offered with a convincing casual shrug. "Always wanted to see the great castle." Never mind that he'd already seen it.

"Really?" Dumbledore seemed to be considering it.

So close. Now for the kill. Harry nodded. "Heard so much about it, you know. The kids are almost always speaking about it." He looked up into Dumbledore's face. "And I figure if death is close, I might as well visit the grounds in which my parents met."

Silence proceeded his little spiel. Dumbledore stood with his hand on the handle, apparently mulling over Harry's suggestion. The seconds ticked. Harry cocked his head around, patiently awaiting the verdict—ignoring the voices in his head. The room was bare. No pictures. Wooden walls. A lantern hang from the ceiling, the only illumination. It was horribly desolate. It was stark empty except from the chair he was plumbed in.

"What do you think about Hogwarts, Harry?" Dumbledore finally asked.

Harry frowned, perplexed by the query. Hadn't he just answered that? "I don't know. Apparently it's nice—"

Dumbledore shook his head. "No, no, no." He chuckled. "I mean what do you think about attending Hogwarts?"

Him! Go to school? He didn't go to school! Hadn't received any sort of formal education after the age of nine. Didn't envision himself obtaining any either. He was a perfectly competent person. He wasn't illiterate. So what was the need for school? "Excuse me; school...?" He cleared his throat, deciding to maintain his polite tone. "I don't think that's necessary." He rose from his seat.

Dumbledore abandoned his hold on the doorknob. He peered levelly at Harry. Harry felt warmth enclose him. He was taller than Dumbledore and thus the man was—in some ways—compelled to look at Harry as an equal. "And why not?" the old man countered.

Oh, I don't know. Could it possibly be because there's a fucking war raging outside the walls of Hogwarts. A war that incidentally revolves around my life. Oh yeah, that could be it. "Because I'd like to participate in the war."

Dumbledore blinked. "Participate? In the war?" He chuckled. "I think not, Harry." Harry opened his mouth to interrupt but Dumbledore quickly rushed on. "You are entirely too valuable to simply toss away like that, Mr. Potter."

Well, I'm going to be in the war soon anyway. "I'll be in the midst of things in the future anyway—why wait?"

Dumbledore sighed. "You are strong, Harry. You pose as a strong threat against Voldemort." Harry smirked. "But," Dumbledore continued, "I doubt you can defeat Voldemort at this moment, so you shall head to Hogwarts where assistance shall be provided to further enhance your already formidable skills?"

Harry scowled—quite alarmed by a particular portion of Dumbledore's aforementioned sentence. "What makes you think I'm a formidable opponent?" That was information he fought indefatigably to keep classified. His casual attires. His flirty attitude. Those were all ploys to disguise the danger he lived in, and the skill he possessed to constantly defeat his adversaries. Of course, that was done so constantly it was literally a part of him now. But still, Dumbledore shouldn't be aware of that!

"You took out fifteen members of my Order," Dumbledore responded flatly, his eyes twinkling merrily.

Oh yeah. In justification, what was a bloke supposed to think when a myriad of wizards and witches suddenly apparated into the Leaky Cauldron and began firing spells at him. They were at war, for Merlin's sake. He couldn't be held guilty for attempting to defend himself. He wasn't going to be contrite about it, either. He shrugged at Dumbledore.

"Not your fault," Dumbledore admitted. "Not ours, either."

Harry brushed this off, his thoughts seguing towards other bothersome ones. "I don't need school, Dumbledore," Harry said.

"Oh really?"

"Yes, really," he deadpanned. He was quite put off and infuriated by Dumbledore's casual snub. "I think I'm ready for the outside world." Dumbledore already knew about his talents. No reason to conceal them anymore.

"I understand," Dumbledore responded patiently, an irritating compassionate glint in those blue eyes. "But you just can't defeat Voldemort as of yet," Harry opened his mouth to protest but Dumbledore forged ahead. "Your ability wasn't subject to my statement, Harry." He looked Harry in the eye. "Voldemort is—at the moment—immortal."

Harry felt his blood ran cold. Immortal?! Well, that explained the return of Voldemort. A return that shouldn't have been possible to begin with considering that said Dark Lord had collided with his own stray Killing Curse fifteen years ago.

And what did Dumbledore mean by "at the moment". "At the moment?"

"It's a working process," Dumbledore said cryptically. "Hogwarts it is, then!" He pulled the handle of the door and had almost completed his egress when Harry's mind managed to register what was happening.

"Wait!" he called.

Dumbledore turned around, a puzzled look on his face. Then his face brightened. "Ah, yes. Where you'll stay?" Harry nodded, unable to wipe the scowl off his face. "How about right here?"

Harry run a hand through his hair. "And where exactly is here?"

"The home of the Black's. Headquarters of the Order of Phoenix. 12 Grimmauld Place."

Harry took a look around. This was the Headquarters for the Order of Phoenix. How odd. It was so...bare. Where was everybody? Nice place for covert purposes, he conceded. Yes, very nice.

"It's late," Dumbledore said. "Come with me. I'll show you to your room for the night, and the remaining weeks of summer."


	2. Number Four Again!

Prison! That was what this was. Forcing him in a home without his consent. Without his approval. And without any hope of escape.

Yeah, it was prison all right. And Harry was well aware how prison worked. Thank you, Dursleys.

The frigid shower helped. The water was so gelid, it seeped into his skin, compelling him to be apathetic. He stayed underneath, enjoying the sensation as he slowly lost the ability to feel. Until he couldn't feel his toes. His hands. His head. His whole body.

Until he couldn't even identify his emotion.

It was nice and soothing, pressed up against the wall—forgetting his troubles. He'd stay here in the shower, underneath the cold water. It was much more satisfactory than attempting to sleep.

Where the nightmares would plague him! And he'd wake up in a pool of sweat—and then that irksome feeling of fear and helplessness. That instinctive belief that his uncle could kill him. That it was all over! He wouldn't receive another opportunity to live life without all the other issues.

No, it was better here. Here, he couldn't feel. And that was good. Feelings obstructed shrewd judgment.

He cocked his neck to the side as his ears caught a gasp.

He smiled and reached out to the female peeking in through the blankets.

She had soft skin. She held that faint fragrance of cheap perfume. She wasn't the best—not his type. But she'd do for now.

Damn! She was really tight! This ought to help him out.

* * *

Dumbledore was waiting outside the door when Harry opened it the next morning. His face—unsurprisingly—held that irritating tranquil look. His twinkle was as bright as ever. Coupled with the gloomy lighting in the corridor—and Harry's adept eyesight—feigning ignorance to the amused smile was simply futile.

Harry shut the door and leaned back against the door—trying to appear aloof.

"What do you want?" He was pissed. He'd been held prisoner. He'd been constrained into a room for rest—which, incidentally, had been the location he'd been brutally interrogated in. The only consolation: his bed was quite comfy, despite the fact that Dumbledore transfiguring it from a chair.

And that girl hadn't even been that good!

Harry wasn't even going to attempt playing nice today.

Dumbledore's face twisted into a frown. Harry felt his toes tingle. The least he could do was create trouble for the old coot. "Why so cross, Harry?"

Harry cocked an unimpressed eyebrow. "None of your business, old man." If only the Versace had given him a more satisfactory response last night. Apparently, he was too secluded. And they couldn't risk any numbers to rescue him. Seeing as he wasn't disposable in ol' Dumble's eyes, they'd decided rescuing him wasn't pivotal to their success in the upcoming missions. Utter bullshit.

"Did you have a good night's rest?" Dumbledore asked. He appeared sincerely concerned.

Yeah, right. Harry shrugged casually. "It was alright." Actually, he had. But he wouldn't be telling Dumbledore that. Perhaps, he'd finally found the formula to a good night's rest. Marauder around till you're sore. Take a cold, cold shower. And then fuck a mindless bird. After a little tinkering, the plan would be fine.

Dumbledore nodded. "Come with me; I want you to meet the Order."

Harry scowled at him, unwilling to follow the order like some subservient, meek, clueless teenager. But Dumbledore had possession of his two wands. And Harry's daggers. Although he could simply summon those—they would be nugatory against Dumbledore, considering the man currently possessed his wand. And supposedly was quite the duelist.

But surely, a fight wasn't inevitable. And surely, he could eschew a confrontation with the Order of Phoenix. He smirked as a plan struck him. "I think not, Dumbledore."

Dumbledore's eyebrow flew. His serene expression crumbled comically. "No?" He coughed. He blinked to gather his composure. "And why not, Harry, if I may ask?"

Harry crossed his hands across his chest, trying not to exhibit his amusement. "I think we should do things differently."

"Please elaborate," Dumbledore demanded.

"We're on the same side, Dumbledore," Harry explained. Even though I don't like it, Harry added mentally. Dumbledore nodded for him to continue. "So we must work together. I hear you operate without informing others of your plans but that has to change." His sources were very reliable. He looked into Dumbledore's eyes. "If we want to defeat Voldemort, we have to have some communication."

Dumbledore was quiet after Harry's justification. He was obviously mulling over Harry's words. Harry felt very content. At this rate, he could even manipulate a few people to his will and soon—make his escape.

At least, that was the plan.

Dumbledore nodded. "Yes, you are right."

* * *

 _It hurt. The pain. But he deserved it. He had no right, should have never even thought about doing something like that._

 _Another whip to his back!_

 _He bit his disliked his petty screams. He was unworthy! No reason to waste his voice._

 _Another whip!_

 _And another!_

 _And another!_

 _Slowly, the other emotions drifted away, leaving only agony—rich blessed and deserved agony—staring him in the face. Slicing ever deeper into his skin, and tearing flesh._

 _He couldn't take it anymore! It'd been just self-defense—_

Harry sat up, drenched in perspiration, and backed up against the wall, his mind racing.

The dream! It was what he'd dubbed it. It was of his most brutal abuse at the hands of the Dursleys.

Of the time when Vernon had discovered the death of his precious son, Dudley.

He hadn't even been at fault—but at the time he'd spent several nights wallowing in guilt, heavy with vaucous, contrite emotions as the Dursleys enacted their own form of revenge. Slow, and deliberate torture. They said he'd learn.

He shared a bitter laugh—remembering what had happened instead. The Dursleys hadn't expected to end up six feet under in a magical explosion; surely.

His breathing slowed as he recalled blinking at a frizzled old lady with a benevolent smile that had immediately obtain Harry's trust.

He smiled. Without good old Figg, he'd probably be six feet under—a few away from the Dursleys.

A creak stilled him. His senses peaked and his breathing slowed in an effort to grab a second creak so as to ascertain someone was near.

Another creak!

He jumped off his bed and took a swift, fleeting glance around—and gave a small smile. He'd been pissed at Dumbledore because the man had only been able provide a tight and constricted room, without even a bathroom—he had to settle for a bathroom in another room, for Merlin's sake. But now, he was quite thankful! His adversary would be helpless in this queer setting, and Harry doubted the gloomy illumination would further assist the intruder. Harry was cool with it, frankly.

He tip-toed behind the door, patiently awaiting the arrival of the prowler.

Light slowly trickled into the room as the door creaked open. Harry dug quietly into his pockets and pulled out his two wands, mentally congratulating himself for slyly convincing Dumbledore to relinquish Harry's wands.

Harry acquired a cursory glance at some small, magnificent-looking feet as the door was closed shut and the trespasser took a first step into his room.

Female, he saw. No bloke could have those curves, his cock screamed—flickering in his jeans shorts.

Shut up, he commanded his flickering object. Pointing the wand in his right hand at the interloper, he thought Incarcerous.

Thick ropes and cords immediately wrapped around the hands of the infiltrator. Silencio, Harry thought immediately dispelling the scream he was certain had been about to erupt from the mouth of the trespasser.

Harry watched—quite amused—as the trespasser writhed in the binding ropes, her mouth forming some vulgar obscenities.

Desiring a better view, he flicked on the switch behind him. He covered his eyes—hissing as the bright ray of light hit his eyes. When his eyes adjusted to the light, he grabbed his first real glance at the intruder.

She was tall—considering she was female. Five-feet seven. She had alluring, milky creamy skin that seemed to glow under the ray of the light. Her hair was vivid red, like an actual fire, not orange or ginger—actual deep red. Harry almost felt compelled to stroke it—but the seething glower in those enchanting bright brown eyes curbed him.

He cleared his throat, simultaneously straightening his Occlumency shields—just in case she was proficient at Legilimency. "Who are you?"

The girl shot him another withering glare. She breathed through her nose, and released a silent scream. Harry closed his eyes, but was unable to prevent himself from conjuring up an image of his manhood in her mouth as she bobbed up and down—

Stop.

He opened his eyes. Scrutinized his intruder. She looked curious. Her cute eyebrows had scrunched together in the middle of her forehead as her gaze raked Harry, all the while gasping for breath. "Who are you?" she gasped out.

Harry cocked a brow. So Dumbledore hadn't seen fit to inform the Order about him yet, eh? Was there some biased motive behind this that he could perhaps utilize...

He flashed the girl his most charming smile, and raised his hand in apparent surrender. "Listen, I'm going to release you," he told her. The girl's frown only deepened. Harry couldn't help but be impressed. At this point, girls usually smiled shyly or readily agreed to anything he asked. But this girl remained suspicious.

That was all well and all—impressive, really—but he required her to be more nonchalant. She was reticent, he detected—and she wasn't pleased to have her movements restricted. Something they both hated. Harry smiled in amusement, and began circling the girl slowly.

"What's your name?"

"I asked that first," she replied, her eyes glowing a captivating golden.

Harry shrugged, averting his eyes. He spied his bed in the corner of the room, considering whether to sit in it. Eventually, he decided to take a brief sit. It had been a long day (convincing Dumbledore was extremely arduous—Dumbledore was a pertinacious, old bint), and a nice, relaxing sit could only be beneficial.

He smirked one more time at his capture and walked back to his bed, easing into it. He sighed contently as he sagged into it.

His Schadenfreude mounted as he caught sight of his captive's arse. Oh, what a sight!

"What are you doing?!" she asked, her voice laced with suppressed rage.

Harry smiled. Feisty girls were always enjoyable. "Relaxing."

"What do you want?" she snapped at him.

Harry chuckled. "Nothing, really." He eased back into the wall—ashamed that a hint of huskiness had crept into his voice. He straightened against the wall, pondering different directions to hold a conversation that could potentially help this beddable girl to unwall herself.

"I'll answer that, if," he paused slightly—waiting to see if he could prompt a response out of the girl. After a tense stretch of silence, disappointed, he opened his mouth to rekindle their conversation.

"If what?" she cried before he could speak.

Still interested, eh...? Excellent. "A few things," Harry drawled out, smirking. He'd won this, he could already tell. The slight desperation in her voice spoke volumes.

" .They?!"

"First..." Harry paused for a moment to straighten his jeans as his bulge had made it rather uncomfortable. He cleared his throat when he was done. "Tell me your name." The girl snorted and muttered something incorrigible. Harry smirked. Snarky was nice too. "Come on—I promise I won't hurt you."

She cackled madly. "Yeah right. I should have listened to Hermione and avoided this place. I never should have listened to my instincts."

Harry listened to his instincts. They were always—always—on point. There was nothing he regretted more than shrugging them off at the Leaky Cauldron. Damn it all, if he'd only listened—he wouldn't be locked up in a house with little possibility of unfettering himself.

But then again, he would never have become aware of the prophecy and finally solve the mystery of why he had so many combatants. And he'd never have met this girl, who it seemed had some interesting issues—and news well worth seeking.

"Why did you come here?" he asked curiously, hoping to wheedle some information from her.

Harry sucked in a sharp breath as the girl shrugged, her derriere bouncing very seductively. He struggled to catch her response. "I was curious."

"Curiosity killed the cat."

The girl shuddered, prompting an instinctive response from Harry. "Do you intend to kill me?"

Harry remained silent, pondering his decision. Should he kill her? He snorted. Hell no! If she turned out to be useless, he could simply Obliviate her and they'd be back to square one. Killing was messy business. Especially with his present location... And to kill such a beauty would be such a waste.

He rose to his feet—finally acknowledging to himself just how distracting the rear side of this bird was to him. He walked to her front, which was thankfully covered much more effectively. "Not yet."

She glared at the sight of him, grinding her teeth. "Ginevra," she ground out. Harry cocked a brow. "My name," she breathed out.

Her name was Ginevra? How...entrancingly beautiful. "Ginerva," he said softly, pocketing the wand in his left hand.

"Yes." Her voice was weak. Was he hurting her? "But call me Ginny." That sounded forceful. A fierce passion? Harry decided on a whim never to call her by the name of "Ginny" but instead "Ginevra"

But before that, he pointed his wand at her. Her eye's widened, and her expression became frighteningly furious. Finite Incantatem. Finite Incantatem. The ropes came off her hands. Ginny blinked at him several times in disbelief for a few seconds.

Then—in one swift motion—she dug into her jeans and produced. Well aware of her intentions, he raised a mocking eyebrow at her, silently challenging her to hex him—if she dared.

Wand in hand, she stared defiantly at him. "Let's see if you can take me on when I'm alert and equipped with a wand." She sneered at him like she found this doubtful. She fell a notch in his ratings. Displaying confidence to your opponent was alright —especially if you possessed the talent to back you up—but when you were bluffing (like she obviously was), bragging was a daring maneuver that few—rightly so—attempted, and even fewer—if any—came out victorious.

She raised her wand, an incantation on her lips. Accio wand.

Ginny looked disconcerted by the loss of her wand. She kept glancing into her palm and back towards Harry, who was now twirling both wands idly—wearing what he knew was a very irritating smirk of victory.

"Give it back," she demanded softly, taking a step closer.

Harry smirked back calmy at her, crossing his arms across his chest. "Sit down," he commanded.

She scowled at him, her gaze flickering around his desolate, bare room. "Where?"

"On my bed." He'd never exactly been referred to as a 'gentleman', but his life could be approaching it's conclusion. Perhaps, now was the time to explore edges he'd never actually considered before—or consummately skirted. For example, being a gentleman.

Ginny frowned at him but after a few seconds of silent, covert—and yet noticed by Harry—glances for another option, she shrugged defeatedly and shuffled backwards, slumping head-first into his bed.

Harry conjured a comfortable sofa to sit on. He was exhausted, and his legs were wasted. No reason to further inflict pain on himself by standing. He sagged into it, unable to prevent the sigh of pleasure from his mouth as he stretched out his legs.

Remembering he was holding Ginny prisoner, he sat up. His heart rate increased exponentially as he gazed upon her, intently perusing him. But what had him was the way she'd bit her lip. She concentrated so much, that blood seeped out of her lips.

Harry once again cursed himself for putting on jeans—but then quickly remembered he hadn't been presented another, more pleasurable option.

He cleared his throat, and briefly fought a steep battle as she jumped up in shock. She glared at him, ostensibly not pleased by his amusement. Oh, who cared!

"What's your last name?" If he got to know her better, he might be able to deduce whether or not to believe her. And that was if she had any information he was already unaware about—and by the looks of her, he doubted it. The Intel he'd received stated quite clearly that the Order of Phoenix was eschewing recruiting people below the age of eighteen.

A pair of twins had been simply delighted when they reached their coming of age.

"Weasley," she said proudly, her chin raised defiantly.

Weasley, eh? Well, now she'd informed him, he could definitely recognize the striking similarities in her face and that of the twin's. They'd once relayed to him the eerie similarity between them and Ginny. It was breathtaking to actually witness it, and to discern it as well was simply wondrous.

"You're the first female Weasley to be born in seven generations," Harry recited from memory.

Her eyes very nearly popped out of her eye sockets. "How d'you know that?" she hissed.

Harry smirked. He wasn't going to tell her. But this was getting boring—and his amusement and his patience was waning. He needed answers—and sleep... There was only one way to get either. "For the last time, Ginevra, why did you come here?" he asked, twirling his wand in his hand so as to give the impression that this final question was an ultimatum.

Those lovely hazel eyes spied the wand nervously. "I heard..." her voice broke and she looked down. Harry barely halted himself from just diving straight into her mind and retrieving memories. "I eavesdropped on an Order meeting today," she said, contrite laced in her voice.

Regretting being curious, eh? Harry smirked. "Curiosity did kill the cat, huh."

She shot him a withering glare, and then huffed out a breath. Her eyes trailed to Harry's wand and she seemed to once again remind herself she was helpless right now.

Harry chuckled softly and gestured for her to continue—with his wand. "I was curious," she explained, closing her eyes and wincing as if scolding herself for allowing herself to listen to her instinct.

"Curious about what?" he asked, enunciating every word softly.

Ginny opened her eyes. "You're not him," she said as if trying to convince herself, shaking her head to further emphasize that point. She snorted. "No, you're definitely not him."

"Who?" Harry inquired, frowning.

"Harry Potter."

Harry cursed softly in Parseltongue. So Dumbledore had notified the Order. That killed off several plans and schemes that had been running amok in his brain unconsciously, along with all the different ways he could bang this bird without further increasing his self-hate.

"It is you."

Harry glanced up, bewildered. "What?!"

Ginny smiled, a true genuine smile, and for the first time—Harry realized where he'd seen her before.

The girl he'd rescued from the Chamber of Secrets all those years ago.

He hadn't been able to simply let her die. He hadn't been able to succumb to reason. His instincts had screamed and barked too loud for him not to proceed with the deed. At that time, he was the only one he spoke Parseltongue in the world—excluding Voldemort—although his friends had been rapidly learning the language. But at that time, it'd been just him.

So he'd done it. And endured Theodore's shrill, persistent gasps of shock and surprise. Draco's stupendous look had been a rather succulent benefit, he now realized. But in the end, it had all worked it well. He'd survived. His friends forgave him (Harry finally managed to coax them into forgiveness after offering a few mountains of galleons)and—most importantly—that pretty little girl had survived the ordeal.

"You're Harry Potter," she said, sounding absolutely certain, and inexplicably dumbfounded.

Harry couldn't help but think, Well, duh.

* * *

Half an hour later, assured by the soft almost inaudible snores of Hermione—her roommate—Ginny twisted the serpent doorknob and stepped inside. She caressed the serpent and then pushed the door back onto it's hinges.

The darkness threatened to engulf her, but she resisted. She tried to clutch onto a memory, any memory at all.

Then she remembered her recent, fleeting encounter with Harry Potter. He was nothing like she'd envisaged ever before. He was snarky, rude, wily, dangerous, and—she was a girl so she noticed—unbelievably hot.

He wasn't beautiful like Draco Malfoy. He wasn't super tall like the blondie, who had charmed his way into so many knickers in his stay at Hogwarts.

He was just plain, undeniably hot.

His well-rounded face—with those thin, blood red lips that seemed to crave a kiss that she desperately wanted to provide. And that hard-set jaw. And those messy bangs of mop on his hair that she just wanted to bury her hands in.

To complete the picture, a body rippling with muscles, thoroughly undisguised—nor attempted to conceal—in a V-neck undershirt. It'd been difficult to keep her eyes averted enough not to arouse suspicion towards her physical attraction to him. Then again, Harry Potter was probably so talented at that game, she'd be astonished if he hadn't noticed. And if he had, Ginny was most definitely not to blame.

Harry Potter was at least six-feet tall. That was just about tall for a bloke. Ron would probably tower a little over Harry, but she was reluctant to even offer Ronniekins a chance at defeating Harry in any sort of duel or competition. Well, maybe an eating contest.

And that bad-boy persona. Those chameleon eyes that seemed to constantly morph colors. From fetching, emerald green eyes to those sizzling red eyes that made her knees buckle. She'd never been so glad to have her butt underneath something.

Ginny doubted Harry even attempted to attract attention. It probably just poured right in. From the women: almost uncontrollable lust. And from the men: intense jealousy. She couldn't really blame them.

Tall, handsome, and dark, Harry Potter was literally every woman's dream.

Ginny released a sigh, opening her legs as she thought up ways to deal with the need between her legs.

Unfortunately, her fanny seemed to be in desperate need for Harry Potter—who didn't exactly appear currently available on the market. What with Voldemort running amok these days. The notion that Harry Potter would kill Voldemort was firmly etched into her mind with no chance of escape.

Concentrate, she scolded herself, on the task. She was exhausted, she conceded to herself, and her bed was simply footsteps away.

Maybe tomorrow she could figure out a way to help Harry.

* * *

Harry groaned, rolling over to sink his head into his pillow in an effort to block out the vexing sensation of a Shoutout.

Finally accepting defeat, he rummaged inside his back pocket and pulled out his mirror.

 _"Who is it?"_ he hissed in Parseltongue.

He heard someone clear their throat on the line. _"Harry?"_

Harry frowned, recognizing the voice, wondering why Draco sounded nervous. Draco was almost never displayed any sort of nerves. Well, except when he was playing Quidditch, or pranking someone, or in the throes of a duel with Harry himself, or—Harry was assuming—engaged in a vigorious sexual encounter.

Harry sincerely hoped he wasn't calling him whilst shagging a bird. " _What do you want? You better not be shagging some random bitch."_

He heard Draco chuckle. _"No, nothing like that."_ Draco cleared his throat once more. _"I have some bad news."_

No kidding. Harry sat up in his bed, and pulled on his undershirt, suddenly too awake. Draco's tone worried him. A lot. He heaved a sigh, hand on the serpent doorknob—mind racing as he tried to recall the recent missions they were scheduled to undertake.

Dolohov? Nah, probably not.

Liverpool? Nope.

Blackpool? Eh, doubtful, but possible.

Figg? Oh, holy shit! _"Is it Figg? Draco, please tell me it's not Figg, anybody but Figg."_


	3. Secrets

"Good day?" Molly beamed at him, looking over her shoulder at the sink as Dumbledore arrived in the gloomy basement of Grimmauld Place.

A frown wound it's way onto his aged face as his gaze swept across the kitchen. Why was such a bleak location the place where most meetings were held? Good Godric, how long had they inhabited this place? Almost three years now, wasn't it! Surely they weren't this ignorant to cleaning issues of Grimmauld Place.

Were they...?

Ah, well, if they were—it wasn't essential, anyway. And besides, the house didn't depend on this, eh...

He swiveled his head to survey Molly Weasley. Ah, good old Molly, the feisty old witch who had somehow managed to keep her children in check. Well, there was the odd case of Fred and George, the amusing twins—but those two were destined for greatness, and couldn't be halted.

He surveyed the dining table—still smiling, for it was a joyful day. Harry Potter was in their custody, and the possibility of eradicating Voldemort's march to victory—practically unchallenged—was much stronger.

Ron Weasley was currently swiftly gobbling a cup of orange juice, a plate of pancakes stacked up frighteningly high. Situated beside him, a friend the ginger was effectively dependent on—Hermione Granger, her nose, amusingly, as usual, in a book.

Down the long table dedicated to meals and most notably: meetings, Ginevra Weasley—a plucky witch Dumbledore was proud of for persevering strongly after her poor and baffling start to Hogwarts.

And Susan Bones. Amelia Bones—the most recent addition to the Order and the Aunt and guardian of Susan—had literally demanded her niece reside with them in a "heavily fortified location."

"Yes." Dumbledore smiled at Molly. "It's a very good day."

Molly returned his smile. "That's good." She turned back to her fountain of plates.

"Has our guest been down yet?" he asked, expertly eschewing allowing the children present becoming aware of Harry Potter.

Molly stilled, and turned around. She looked stricken—a tad bit determined, and a little nervous, as well. Could the children already know of Harry Potter's presence? That hadn't been a part of his plans but could easily be fitted in. In fact, as he continuously assessed that notion, the more endearing the children becoming aware of Harry Potter sounded.

Besides, Harry Potter could do with some friends. And the chap could hardly do better than these fine students.

"They know, do they?"

Molly nodded.

"Planning to keep me a secret, were you, Dumbles?"

Dumbledore whirled around to find Harry Potter, casual and cool as you like, leaning against the wall—on the last stair.

He offered a benevolent smile, hoping to keep the boy in a good mood. Their past interactions had been okay. He'd been forced to cough up details of the prophecy to him. And then, to gain more trust from the boy—for it had not been come forthcoming—he had returned his wands, but had continued to hold onto the daggers. Those blades were sharp.

The boy in question run his hand through his hair. "Can I talk to you, old man?"

"Of course." Never mind that you called me old. Why not? "Where?"

Harry Potter shrugged. "How should I know? It is your house."

Willing to cooperative today? This could be massive. He glanced behind him and gave Molly a tight smile. She returned it quickly, glancing worriedly back at her children—who were watching them with hawk-eyes.

"Come on, follow me."

* * *

Dumbledore led him past the kitchen and towards a dark pantry spacious enough for two. Horribly uncouth—but understandably desperate, Harry chose not to complain on the setting of their gathering.

Dumbledore's wand provided subtle lighting—but enough to illuminate the grimy nature of the pantry. Dumbledore once again offered his encouraging smile. Harry restrained a growl. "You wanted to talk."

"Yes, I did," he confirmed. He nervously run over his words in his head. Everything had to be perfect. If not... Just think positive, he reprimanded himself. "What does the Order do, per se?"

Dumbledore seemed puzzled by his inquiry. No less than he'd expected. A wonderful start. "I'm sorry."

Harry shrugged. "I was curious, you know." Dumbledore raised a brow. "I figure seeing as I'm destined to defeat Voldemort, I might as well get to know the people who'll help me do so."

Dumbledore seemed pleased by that. This might be much easier than he'd expected. "That is pleasing news, Harry." He beamed at Harry, who tried hard not to gag under the intense stare. "What do you want to know?"

Careful now, he reminded himself. Had to appear simply curious. He shrugged casually. "What you guys do to help prevent Voldemort conquering the world? And how you do it?"

Silence ensued after his spiel. Dumbledore examined him critically. Harry eased back into a cupboard dedicated to utensils—trying to appear phlegmatic.

"I am the leader of the Order of the Phoenix," Dumbledore began. Harry restrained himself from rolling his eyes. Already knew that! Dumbledore appeared to be reminiscing. "I formed the Order during the throes of the previous war against Voldemort in a daring move to hinder Voldemort's ubiquitous plans." He paused, sighing heavily. "Several great students were recruited; Lily and James, Frank and Alice..." Dumbledore trailed off, his shoulders sagging.

Harry reluctantly admitted to himself how enthralling it was to experience Dumbledore expressing such an emotion such as sorrow. Wrinkles were pervasive. His eyes were twinkle-less. It seemed so odd now to Harry. What ever happened to the foolishly cheerful, benign old man who found amusement in the queerest of things.

Dumbledore straightened his shoulders. "At that time, Voldemort was on a rampage. The Ministry had lost almost all of it's aurors"—Kind of like now—"and several noble men stepped up to fight—dying by the day." Dumbledore sighed. "I was asked countless times to help but I couldn't abandon the safe fortress of Hogwarts. After all, that was the future. If the future wasn't secured, then what was the fighting for."

Flawless reasoning.

"So I recruited students from the past that I had kept contact with. Distant friends as well. About fifty great people. We congregated to fight Voldemort."

"Fifty people?"

"Most of them are now six feet underneath the earth."

"Fascinating," Harry drawled out, his patience running rugged. He cleared his throat, brushing off the affronted look Dumbledore had shot him. "History is wonderful and all but I already know it—what I need is the present news? What is it the Order is currently doing to hinder Voldemort's almost unchallenged march to victory."

Dumbledore studied him rivetedly. "Several missions are currently underway."

"Like what?" So close. Just a little further.

Dumbledore shrugged. "We have received word that Voldemort plans to attack the Ministry recently."

"Received word? From whom?" Snape. No doubt about it. So the man was playing double agent. At least that was confirmed. Harry crossed his hands across his chest, in order to prevent them from retrieving the communication mirrors on their own accord.

Dumbledore smiled inscrutably. "I'm afraid I can't tell you that, Harry... At least not the identity of the person."

No bother. It was Snape, he already knew. He just needed to appear curious and determined to figure Dumbledore out. But damn, this was hopeless!

"Anything else?"

"Yes." He run a frustrated hand through his hair. Gods, Dumbledore could be infuriating sometimes. Pacified himself. "What missions are currently underway or upcoming?"

"Why the sudden interest?"

Harry shrugged, cursing his temerarious, slippery tongue. "No reason." He feigned a defeated sigh. "Oh well then, see you around, Dumbles." He turned to leave.

"Wait," Dumbledore said.

Harry halted his egress, back to Dumbledore—furiously trying to slow his breath so as not to inadvertedly reveal his excitement. This could be it. "Let's work out a compromise..." Dumbledore suggested.

Fuck. Concentrate, he scolded himself. Everything could be fixed. "Why not? What are your terms?"

"I'll tell you one mission you've been working on,"—Ruddy brilliant—"But,"—Here we go—"I need something from you."

Sounded reasonable. "Sure...What do you need from me?"

"A secret from your past."

Now, that could be a problem. He was taking a colossal risk here. He was searching for information on Figg's capture. Unfortunately, the chances of him actually receiving that were despairingly minuscule. Then again, at least he had a chance. Dumbledore didn't have any guarantees on a sweet deal here, either. And besides, he controlled what he informed Dumbledore. Whereas the old man had no clue that details of Figg's capture was his objective. It was risky, of course. Almost asinine. But perhaps, if he delivered a canny performance—and received some luck from above—he could eschew having to reveal some intimate facts about himself. He shrugged, his back still towards Dumbledore so the old coot wouldn't notice the satisfied smile on his face.

"That is acceptable."

"Good..." Dumbledore trailed off.

He remained silent for a while. Harry refrained from turning around, clutching onto patience he hadn't been aware existed.

Finally, Dumbledore spoke. "We will soon be attempting a rescue mission."

His heart hammered in his chest. Closed his eyes in a futile attempt to placate it. Accepted that he was too jittery to modify his heart rate. He turned to face Dumbledore, suddenly glad the lighting was dim in the pantry. Cursed inwardly when Dumbledore flashed the light from his wand on his face. This could be difficult. But he'd been playing this game his whole life. There was nobody better than him. He had to succeed, he reminded himself.

That did it. He glanced up into Dumbledore's eyes. No twinkle there. Perhaps, the old man realized how important this was. Either way, the old coot would have to yield to defeat—sooner or later. "Elaborate, could you? I don't want to divulge information about my clandestine past if you are reluctant to spill worthy news."

A sparkle shone on those ancient eyes. Harry cursed mentally in Parseltongue. "Clandestine past, Harry?" Harry winced inwardly—shrugged lackadaisically on the outside.

Dumbledore heaved a sigh. "If that is your wish..." he trailed off.

"It is." Harry scowled at the impatient tone in his voice. He couldn't display emotion—otherwise Dumbledore would feel encouraged to prolong this. And then he'd be liable to blunders.

He couldn't afford blunders. Not if he ever wanted to see Figg again. The name somehow rejuvenated him. Energy coursed through his veins. He hadn't felt this alive since he'd dueled the Dark Lord three months ago.

"Who are you attempting to rescue?"

"Ms. Figgs," Dumbledore responded promptly.

Harry forced his brows to scrunch together in the middle—indicating false mystification.

Dumbledore chuckled. "Unfamiliar with the name, are you? That's alright, not many are familiar with the name."

Oh, I'm familiar all right, you sodding idiot—but you won't be familiar with your body if you don't hurry up. Glad his hands were across his chest were the alluring scent of his wand couldn't entice him, Harry worked on a suitable response. In the end, he decided on an indifferent shrug of his shoulder, and a roll of his finger stipulating Dumbledore continue his spiel.

"Ms. Figg's identity's unimportant right now."

Annoyed, Harry concocted a vague response. He gasped—as if he'd just come across a startling epiphany. "That batty old neighbour who loved cats." He fought a smile as his memory conjured a picture of Tom—an old house cat—licking his armpits as he slept, arousing him from said slumber. Good times—back in the day.

Dumbledore regarded Harry with suspicion. "Yes, she was your neighbour."

How the hell did Dumbles know that, anyway? From what he'd been informed and eventually confirmed, Dumbledore should have no insight to his past. And neither should the other superpower: Voldemort. And yet, here was Dumbledore spewing classified information on his history.

Or perhaps Figg had let one or two things slip. That was forgivable.

Harry could already imagine Draco's incredulous reaction to that. There was the difference, however, between Figg and Draco. Figg had literally revived him to life, and steered away from a plane spiralling towards a horrendous crash. Wheras Draco had provided company he relied upon—but could survive without.

But if Figg had slipped, she would have immediately notified Harry. So that couldn't possibly be the reason behind it.

Legilimency?

Son of a bitch!

Calm down. "How did you know that, Dumb-arse?"

Dumbledore's eyes flashed at the blatant disrespect. An aura—almost as large as Voldemort's—emitted off him. Harry detected nothing dark in this. And yet it was beguiling still.

Unwilling to reveal the true extent of his magical potency, Harry didn't flare off his magical aura. He barely shivered at the sudden chill—all but embraced it. He just coolly stared back at Dumbledore, conveying nothing at all.

He waited patiently until Dumbledore's furious face mollified, and those chilling blue eyes softened until they resembled the Dumbledore Harry was becoming familiar with.

"What do you want to know?" Dumbledore asked tersely.

Harry released a smirk, glad Dumbledore was losing his cool. Victory was within touching distance. "I already told you, Dumbledore," he said with a smirk, peering into those darkening frosty orbs of fury. "Tell me what you plan to do in regard with Ms. Figg."

"Fine! We know that Ms. Figg is being held in a remote building in Bristol. Unfortunately, we cannot exactly trust this intel—"

"Why not?"

"Because it came from Fletcher—who we now know has been under your control for some time now."

Harry snorted, drinking in desperate amusement from effectively fooling the Order for months. "So you think you can't trust Mundungus?"

"Can we?" Dumbledore retaliated, his gaze piercing into Harry's.

Harry shrugged, mentally acknowledging Dumbledore's effort. Damn, he liked challenges and all, but there was a certain level when it got irritating. "Don't know. Personally, I wouldn't trust him. Nearly died several times because of him." Huge fib. Fletcher had been insanely helpful. Going as far as to all but save the life of Theodore—who, unfortunately now, didn't have the backing of a pureblood father to pacify the hunt for him.

Dumbledore cocked a brow. "You've utilized Fletcher's help in the past." A twinkle shone in the old man's eyes.

The old man believed he'd let something slip. Excellent. Harry shrugged. "A few times... Here and there.

"Now, you were saying..."

Dumbledore smiled. "Yes. We have word coming from Fletcher telling us that Ms. Figg is being held captive in Bristol!"

"Where exactly in Bristol?"

"Lestrange Manor."

Bingo.

Smirking so as to withhold his façade of being apathetic, Harry pushed himself off the wall and slinked past Dumbledore surveying the kitchen like it was his first time. He was a growing boy and food was a pivotal requirement to his growing.

He slipped into a seat at the head of the table, next to a red-haired bloke who was glaring at an empty plate like it'd offended him somehow. Harry raised an eyebrow at the sight, quite surprised his presence hadn't warranted a reaction stimulating enough to abandon a grip on a fork.

On the red-head's left, his entrance had garnered a reaction. A female—big brown eyes... enticing body... book in hand...curious frown—studied him. _Bookworm_. Shouldn't be a problem. Probably played by the books.

His gaze sought out Ginny, seated next to the bookworm. She was frowning at him. Eyebrows scrunched up in the middle of her head—all cute... He wondered if she'd discovered anything to help him leave this prison. Unlikely, considering her assistance had been enlisted simply hours ago.

Seated beside her, was the girl who'd relieved him off a few worries the night before. Red-head. Pretty face. Muggle clothing—like all the children inhabiting the home, Harry had noticed. Susan Bones—Ginevra had informed him. Niece of Amelia Bones—Draco had enlightened him. Was Susan even aware he was the person responsible for her becoming a woman. He chuckled in amusement. Doubtful.

He heard Dumbledore walk towards him and grab a seat at the table. At this, the dimwitted red-head looked up. He thumped a finger at Harry. "Who's that?"

"We'd all like to know that, Ron," Ginny piped up, glowering at her brother.

Impressive, Harry admitted to herself. Maybe Ginny could actually play spy for him. He still couldn't believe the girl he'd rescued from the Chamber felt it was her obligation to assist him. He shook his head. People and morals. Then again, he wasn't immune. He had his own strict set of rules that he required himself to obey.

Dumbledore raised an eyebrow at a plumb woman standing at her sink, facing them—her cheeks flushed.

She shrugged at Dumbledore. "I had thought they would be aware but obviously that is not the case." She cleared her throat. "Er, children, this young man has business with Dumbledore...And the kitchen is needed, so..."

Harry shook his head, resisting the temptation to cup his face in his hands. Poor, poor performance. The whole sentence held a cryptic underlining underneath that would no doubt lure the children into wanting to discover more. Frankly, he'd be amazed if his identity wasn't explicit in an hour or so.

The bookworm rose to her feet—book still in hands. She offered Harry an amiable smile—one he didn't return, lounging back in his chair. She gulped nervously, cast Ron an importuning glare and made to exit the basement.

"No," Dumbledore said with a regal smile, halting the bookworm's egress. "Sit down, Ms. Granger, nothing here you shouldn't know."

The bookworm blushed. "Oh—Um, thank you…Sir," she mumbled. Avoiding Dumbledore's eyes (which seemed to be having their very own, entirely different Fourth of July celebrations, although that occasion had long past), Granger clumsily returned to her seat.

Ronald Weasley shot her a concerned glance. "You okay?"

"I'm fine."

"Hungry, my dear?" the woman—probably Mother Weasley Harry reasoned—asked him, a genial smile playing on her lips.

Harry smiled back without even thinking. The woman's smile diffused intriguing warmth. "Yeah, I'm ravenous."

Mother Weasley chuckled. "Just hold on another quarter of an hour, yeah? Can you do it?" she teased playfully.

Harry snorted. If only she knew as a wee child he'd gone _days_ without meals. A quarter of an hour was a congenial compromise. "Sounds fantastic, Mrs. Weasley." He smiled beguilingly.

Mrs. Weasley winked. "None of this Mrs. Weasley, dear…Just Molly, you hear, my dear." She gave Harry a playful frisky glower, then turned back to the sink.

"Yes, Mrs. Weasley." Mrs. Weasley turned around, hands on her hips, looking—Harry admitted to himself—a tad intimidating. He grinned sheepishly and made a swift rectification to his error, "Yes, Molly—forgive my blunder, will you?"

"Since I'm a dear."

Harry laughed.

Ron Weasley cleared his throat in a bid for the speaking floor. Unchallenged, he directed his query towards Harry, "Who are you?"

Harry smirked at the boy. "Wouldn't you like to know?"

The boy frowned at him, looking comically bewildered. He glanced at Granger for assistance. The bookworm, unlike him, looked unperturbed by his rebuttal. She smiled timidly at Harry, her elbows propped on the table. "Well, I would assume that Ronald is understandably curious of your identity because for the past two summers, the Weasley family, and in extension, myself, and," she paused, glancing behind Harry where Dumbledore was still standing. Seemingly granted permission for something, she continued after a sharp nod, "Others... But we've never seen you before. So…" She fidgeted in her seat, ostensibly uncomfortable, "yeah. Perhaps that's why."

"How have you survived six years with her?" Harry directed his inquiry at Weasley, who looked slightly tipsy after Granger's spiel.

Weasley grimaced at him. "Believe me, mate, it's not been easy—but the last thing I need is to be kicked out of Hogwarts for unsatisfactory marks, so…" He laughed, utterly unaware of Granger's fierce scowl.

"You know what, Ron, if you find me so irksome, you can find some other method to scrape past seventh year—and it better be legal." Lips set in a thin line, Granger pushed to her feet— glaring venomously at Weasley still—she stormed past Dumbledore and took the stairs out of the kitchen, her footfalls echoing loudly—causing the utensils perched precariously above the kitchen to sway dangerously.

A bright white light whistled away and connected with the ceiling, and the danger immediately ceased.

"You better apologize to Hermione, young man," Mrs. Weasley—er, Molly, Harry corrected himself—informed Weasley, sternly, a genuine scowl on her face.

Weasley gulped and hurriedly gave chase to Granger.

Dumbledore quickly replaced Ron in his seat. He smiled at Ginerva. "Wonderful evening, wouldn't you agree, Miss Weasley?"

Ginny blinked at him, evidently baffled by Dumbledore addressing her. "Um, yeah… I guess."

Dumbledore beamed. "Excellent…" He turned towards Bones—nodded at the girl— "and you, Miss Bones?"

Bones actually had the grace to attempt a smile. Attempt being the key word. The result was something between a scowl and a grimace. Harry instantly regretted getting intimate with her body. "Fantastic day, sir." She smiled wistfully.

Dumbledore cocked a brow, appearing curious. Apparently deciding to examine Bones's cryptic response later, Dumbledore turned towards Harry. "And how are you today, Mr. Potter?"

Two gasps ensued after Dumbledore's statement. "Harry Potter?" Bones asked, her eyes nearly popping out of their sockets. "How long has he been living here without our knowledge?"

Dumbledore chuckled merrily. "Oh, a mere two days, Miss Bones."

"All done," Molly exclaimed. Harry turned around in time to see Mrs. Weasley amble towards him, her wand levitating a bowl holding a sumptuous meal—if the aroma was anything to decide by. She smiled at him, lowering the meal onto the table. "Onion soup," she told Harry, her smile brightening the dim kitchen.

Harry glanced into the bowl, and promptly felt his mouth water. He gripped the spoon and began his quest to satiate his stomach.

Dumbledore chuckled as Harry fetched a few spoons and swiftly gobbled them down— eradicating nearly a quarter of the meal. "Come on, Ms. Weasley, Ms. Bones…Let's give Mr. Potter some privacy.

"He'll need it," Dumbledore finished, a cryptic note in his speech that Harry readily dismissed, gobbling another delicious spoon.

* * *

"You're sure?" Draco asked once more.

"Yes!"

"Alright—grab your Hippogriph, will you?" Draco murmured. Harry had to bridle his tongue. "I'll get in contact with Theo and we'll arrange something with—"

"Don't cock this up, Malfoy," Harry warned.

Draco gasped in a sarcastic manner. "Oh no, I wouldn't possibly dream of something like that."

Harry shook his head—furious at his own amusement. "Piss off."

Harry was forced to interrupt Draco's jovial foghorn laughter when the creak of the stairs reached his ears. Thankfully, Draco—perhaps employing some of his exceptional instincts—without Harry's instruction was silent, awaiting an order with subdued breathing.

Another creak sounded—confirming Harry's fears: Someone was coming. "Bye," Harry hissed, obstruting his mind from completing the similarities between proceedings and his introdution to Ginny Weasley.

He waved his hand across the screen of the mirror. " _Versace_." He beamed at his reflection—taking Draco's exit from sight as success.

Harry run his hand through his hair just as his door groaned open—and Albus Dumbledore walked in to his bedroom. Harry cocked a brow at the sight—his only physical depiction of his disconcert.

Belying his unsettled state, Harry sagged into his bed. "Dumbledore," he greeted—making an effort to sound decorous in hopes to discourage a lengthy conversation.

Dumbledore didn't respond to his courteous greeting—he was a bit occupied gawping at Harry's alteration to the bedroom.

To begin with—Harry had quadrupled the size of the bedroom. And had used his proliferation wisely—to include a punching bag, a duelling platform where his opponent was a motionless Voldemort, and also an abnormally large bathroom; he figured it was a brilliant method to siphon himself off anxiety.

"Astounding," Dumbledore murmured, his eyes falling upon Harry. "You inherited your father's remarkable affinity for Transfiguration, didn't you." It was a statement.

Harry shrugged his shoulders. "Yes, I do give that impression, don't I?"

Dumbledore nodded his agreement—and swatted his hand in a twirling motion. A comfy chair emerged into existence and Dumbledore sank into his conjured chair.

"You are—no doubt—curious as to why I have come here." Dumbledore surveyed Harry, who nodded dutifully. "You see—you never did commit to your end of the deal: a secret from your clandestine past... Forgot, no doubt." Dumbledore's smile said it all.

Forgot, my arse. Harry had purposefully slinked past Dumbledore towards company that would avert Dumbledore's probing. In retrospect, he admitted to himself that it'd been inane of him to assume that Dumbledore's silence would be incessant.

He glanced up into those daunting orbs—ignoring the tremors racking through him. Dumbledore's eye were twinkling merrily and the old man was patently enjoying himself. "Do you have a secret, my dear boy?"

"Don't 'dear boy' me," Harry snarled at the wretched man, infuriated at Dumbledore's subtle subduing. Dumbledore smiled penitently, raised his hands in apparent surrender and left Harry to sort out his thoughts.

Secrets...

He happened to have many. Which one to sacrifice.

His actual relationship with Figg. Nah... too personal, that was. Something vague...

His friendship with Draco Malfoy? Harry very nearly scoffed at the idea. Or perhaps reveal his friendship with Theodore Nott? This time Harry lost the battle to evince his amusement and was forced to imperceptibly shake his head at Dumbledore to ward off his despicable concern.

Something less important...

Why he'd decided to undertake the streets rather than continue his life at Provet Drive. The thought made Harry pause. That was generally classified information—but Harry was prepared to... unclassify it. Especially if it meant Dumbledore became aware of just how much damage his colossal errenous decision to place Harry with the Dursleys had inflicted upon Harry.

"I've made a decision."


	4. Dirty Deeds

Albus Dumbledore paced the length of the kitchen of 12 Grimmauld Place—trying to straighten out his thoughts.

It had been a very hectic day. And they were barely twelve hours into it.

It had all began when a Minsitry owl had roust him from a maddeningly restless night at six o'clock in the morning—only to scamper away to safety without even apologizing. After exhausting his extensive knowledge of vulgar terms to tranquilize himself, Albus then realized the owl had delivered a letter and sheepishly picked it up—devouring it and finding it's contents immensely disappointing: Cornerlius wanted a meeting. The letter failed to educate Albus on why—only stating that Albus attempt to meet the Minister of Magic at the earliest convenience.

In retrospect, Albus found he immensely regretted deciding to obey the summons. Nymphadora Tonks had made a colossal blunder, and thus the Minister had become privy to the fact that Harry Potter was in his custody. The Minister had demanded—smugly and not without confidence—that he be allowed to speak with Harry Potter.

Albus had respectfully responded negatively, well aware the Mininster simply wanted to speak with Harry simply to obtain his favour, as the Minsiter was of the opinion—and he wasn't wrong, Albus knew—that should the public believe there was an alliance between the Minister and the unfathomable, treasured Boy-Who-Lived, his bid to retain his position as Minister of Magic would be acres less of a hurdle.

The thought of Fudge as Minister was not exactly revolting—it was! What was distateful was the methods in which Fudge was prepared to employ—without any qualms, whatsoever—to remain Minister of Magic. And so Albus had defied the Minister—surreptitiously needling him, as well.

Unfortunately, he'd encountered an unexpected snag: Minister Fudge! Not really the Minister, in all honesty, but his swollen confidence and knowledge—which was rattling consdiering the events of the previous two years.

The Minister had quickly realized that his motive for meeting Harry Potter was holding him back and changed his method of attack—claiming he wanted to see Harry simply to ascertain the boy was happy and healthy. And—unfortunately—there was an ancient law that granted the Minister the permission to do such a thing... unobstructedly.

This meant that a meeting between the Minister and Harry Potter was essentially obligatory. Not exactly a problem, Dumbledore knew. The problem was Harry Potter.

Albus sighed. It was twelve—the lad was probably awake. If not, Albus would rouse him. They needed to talk!

* * *

The next day began badly... very, very badly.

With a fucking meeting.

With Albus blah, blah, bloody Dumble-freakin-door. Or—as Harry was beginning to favour—Dumb-as-a-door.

And—as if Harry needed another reason to undertake a bad mood—the dumbarse didn't even allow Harry ample respite after their meeting yesterday, (though it had admittedly been a scarcely pleasant one—on Harry's part) arriving in Harry's bedroom before the sun had fucking risen—he was disgruntled to discover. (He hadn't actually bothered to investigate the veracity of his discovery as it was his thought.)

"What do you want, Dumbles?" Harry rubbed at his eyes—managing to restrain a yawn.

"Sounding a bit trite, Harry."

Harry sighed and fell back to his bed—loath to continue witness another example of Dumbledore's awful gaudy fashion sense; torpid after another rubbish kip.

"We need to talk, Harry." So I've heard...

"In the bloody morning...?!"

Dumbledore cocked a brow. "It's twelve."

"Yes, well, I'm Harry Potter—surely that warrants some favouritism." Harry craned his neck to catch Dumbledore's expression.

Dumbledore didn't look impressed—just amused, judging by the fireworks going off in his eyes. "Make sure to be in the kitchen in ten minutes, Harry—believe me you do not want to be ignorant to what I know."

Harry frowned at Dumbledore's sober tone—begrudgingly admitting to himself how daft he would be to ignore the summons. "Ten minutes, Dumbles?" That wasn't nearly enough time to acquire a hasty shower and don on a suitable attire. Okay, so maybe it was. But not enough time to complete the aforementioned tasks and divest himself off hefty ailings.

"Ten minutes, Harry—in the kitchen, we'll go for a walk..." Then, Dumbledore whirled around and excuse himself from the room.

Harry shakily rose to his feet. "Senile old berk." Harry plodded towards his created bathroom, cursing Dumbledore all the while.

Harry heeded Dumbledore's words and was freshly showered and bright-eyed in the kitchen in just ten minutes—scowling.

Dumbledore was standing at the fireplace—his back to Harry. He nodded and threw some Floo powder into the fire—which promptly morphed into a greenish hue. "Where are we going?" Harry asked snidely, trying to disguise giddiness. Perhaps... perhaps he could escape now.

"The Ministry of Magic." Dumbledore focused on Harry, just in time to catch Harry's slack-jawed expression. "You know how to use the Floo, I assume?"

Harry hastily shut his mouth. "Why do you assume that?"

Dumbledore sighed and slowly pivoted to peruse Harry. "Do you?"

"Yes," Harry responded with a shrug.

Dumbledore almost seemed relieved. "Good, we have no time—"

"Why are we going to the Ministry of Magic?" Harry asked, quite suspicious of Dumbledore's motives.

"The Minister has requested a meeting with you," Dumbledore responded in a flat tone.

Harry was floored. "The Minister?" The bumbling bafoon—Fudge. Or had the Wizarding world obtained some much needed wisdom and replaced the dolt. Harry suspected this was not the case. "What does he want with me?"

"Oh, just to verify your perfect health and whatnot." Dumbledore's tone was as light as snow—but it was obvious that the Chief Warlock wasn't at all pleased with recent events; his posture was rather rigid.

Which brought up an interesting question. "Why didn't you prevent this, old man?" Harry asked, quite amused as he witnessed Dumbledore for once not in control or composed but flustered and cluctching at straws—but of course attempting to regain his cool once more.

"I tried to," Dumbledore admitted—an odd bitter tone settling in. "But our Minister mentioned a few laws that even I couldn't legally circumvent."

Harry snorted. "Why are you so reluctant for me to meet Minister Fudge?"

Dumbledore's whirled around, his brow inches away from his receding hairline. "I... wrongly assumed—it would seem—that a potential meeting between our Minister and you could only conclude in a unanimous calamity."

Harry smirked. "I fail to see how that would be so bad." It wouldn't—on Harry's part—but for Dumbledore such a thing would be a worthy of classification as a calamity.

Dumbledore shook his head. "I'm sure _you_ don't. Are we ready to go?"

Harry shrugged. "Whenever you're ready, old man."

"Right after you surrender your wands, Harry."

Harry blinked at Dumbledore in absolute disblief. "No way..."

"And why not, Harry—what do you have to fear about a meeting with the Minister?" Dumbledore appeared to be daring him.

Nothing, really. But being ready and equipped with a weapon couldn't possibly maim him. And Voldemort and his Death Eater were outrageously unpredictable. "What do _you_ have to fear?" Harry shot back.

"You attempting to escape, of course."

Harry smirked. So the old man _was_ wary of his magical prowess...? "You do know that apparation is possible without a wand, right?"

A faint twinkle shone in Dumbledore's eyes. "Yes, that is possible—though unadvised as it puts much more of a strain on the core. Besides, I doubt you would leave without your wand."

Harry's scowl was answer enough for Dumbledore. The old man calmly held out his palm towards Harry. Sighing, Harry dug into his jeans, and handed his wands to Dumbledore—who frowned intently at them. "What is it?" Harry asked in exasperation.

Dumbledore glanced up at Harry. "These are your parent's wand."

Harry blinked at Dumbledore, ignoring his sudden jitters. He crossed his arms across his chest. "And so?" he responded coolly.

Dumbledore opened his mouth to speak—but the words seemed to die on his tongue. He shook his head, almost shaking himself. "Alright then, let's go."

"You first," Harry said firmly.

Dumbledore eyed Harry for a moment, probably weighing the wisdom in the yes and the no. A sharp nod displayed his acquescience. Dumbledore entered the fireplace. "Ministry of Magic, Minister's office!" Dumbledore vanished from view.

Harry glanced about, weighing his options.

He could desert Dumbledore and his cause. Now that he knew of his destiny, there really wasn't any need for him to remain in Dumbledore's obstructive custody. On his own, he could freely and effectively review the problem that was Voldemort.

Unfortunately, that prospect presented a rather colossal problem—how to escape this godforsaken place. He'd tried—on numerous occasions—to simply walk out the door at dawn without the hindrance of prying eyes. To disappointing failure. The door, apparently, was charmed to open only to specific people. And Harry hadn't been included in that illustious list.

Sighing, Harry made a swift segue—trying to envisage a meeting with their Minister. From what he could gather from his sporadic peeks at the Daily Propet, Minister Fudge was teetering on the edge of an embarrasing dismissal after a dismal term in office. Yet somehow the buffoon had managed to coerce Dumbledore into arranging a meeting between Harry and Fudge. Which led Harry to believe that the man was finally displaying some of the Slytherin that the Sorting Hat must have perceived in him.

But Harry wasn't so thick to believe that Fudge desired a meeting to "verify his perfect health." Fudge was fishing for something that could eradicate all possibilty of his discharge as Minister.

And there Harry could compromise...

A smirk came upon Harry as a plan finally struck him.

* * *

Dumbledore felt a painful lurch rack through his chest as he witnessed Harry Potter tumble out of the Minister's office—a wry smirk stretching his thin lips.

Dumbledore blinked at the sight, a terrible sensation coursing through him. The meeting had concluded seconds ago—Minister Fudge had dashed out to visit the toilet—and he was already regretting enlightening Harry on the Minister's intentions.

The boy was very astute and had perhaps already read in between the lines and realized that Minister Fudge was simply seeking the Boy-Who-Lived's alignment. And whilst Dumbledore was almost certain Harry absolutely abhorred that sobriquet, he was entirely convinced the boy was willing to bury his utter detest for the name if it meant an alliance that benefitted Harry—of course.

The thought of Harry Potter and Minister Fudge in a mutually consented alliance was simply unfathomable. For a number reasons.

To begin with, in an abstruse turn of events—Minister Fudge was displaying a frighteningly accurate memory in regard to the laws of the Wizarding world. Considering that just a year ago, Fudge had been a stuttering, bumbing, incompetent excuse for a Minister. Unfortunately, despite all those underwhelming authentic descriptions, Fudge did have several powerful allies in the Wizegnoat—including and most notably the slinky Head of the Malfoy family, Lucius Malfoy. Allies who reaped much from Fudge's continuous wretched reign over Wizarding Britain. And so he'd continued to rule over them.

Dumbledore had even tested the Minister for any signs of influence under the Imperious Curse but his investigation was largely disappointing; the change was indeed frightening.

Secondly and most worryingly, Harry Potter had thus far exhibited advanced knowledge of the Wizarding world. And Dumbledore was shaking with jitters because there was a law... several laws, in fact, that granted the Minister the necessary heft to render Dumbledore's meticulously concocted plans useless.

And that would be disastrous for the future of the Wizarding world.

"Let us walk," Dumbledore prompted in a bid to shatter the rather tense silence.

Harry nodded, and heeded Dumbledore—falling into a casual gait, rigidly keeping pace with Dumbledore. He casually ignored the shameful gawping Dumbledore suffered and the muffled murmurs directed at him, wondering—out-loud—why he was in Dumbledore's company.

Dumbledore looked agitated, Harry observed—not bothering to conceal his pleased smile. And the old man should be.

Because the meeting had been very rewarding for Harry.

In just half an hour—alone with the Mininster after Dumbledore's tangled dismissal at the hands of Fudge—Harry had successfully hoodwinked Fudge into believing that his campaign would have his name supporting it.

This agreement came with a few terms.

As Harry was legally an adult—he demanded that he be free of Dumbledore. A chuckle escaped him as he envisaged Dumbledore's face when the Headmaster was informed of that. Minister Fudge had agreed—enthusiastically—even mentioning several laws that could work in their favor. Harry reminded himself to be circumspect with regard to the Minister after the first three laws were mentioned. Perhaps, the stout, balding man wasn't as hopeless as he appeared. He'd managed to wheedle and wedge his path into the Ministry post.

Secondly, with the now acknowledged burly burden of Voldemort resting on his admittedly competent shoulders, Harry didn't want to bother himself worrying about such a simple matter as Apparition. The Minister had swiftly granted him an Apparition license—though Harry hadn't taken the test, but he hadn't made a peep about it.

Thirdly, and lastly, Harry had asked that the Daily Prophet be prudent when writing about him. Harry had viewed Dumbledore's slandering with amusement—but was averse to his suffering of the same fate. And so—to ensure his own safety—Harry had requested the Minister swear that his name would never undergo besmirching... with a magical oath. The Minister had immediately done so—with gusto, Harry had been bemused to see.

But he'd quickly discovered the reason.

Right after swearing to Harry's terms, Minister Fudge had requested that Harry also swear on something... his _support_ for Fudge's campaign to retain his position as Minister. With a cheeky smile, Harry had refused, angering the Minister. But he could do nothing, Harry gleefully informed the Minister—who staggered to his feet in a pitiful endeavor to appear intimidating as the information sank in. Flushed and his bald head in plain view (his bowler hat had fallen off), Minister Fudge had stuttered out threats after the other. Finally, after Harry bored and actually threatened to work against Fudge, the Minister scurried out of the room, sobs racking through the room as the idiot realized his fatal mistake—some suspicious liquid dripping from his trousers as he went.

Dumbledore's hands came upon his shoulders, giving him a little jolt and Harry had to restrain himself from reaching for his wands—which he remembered weren't even in his possession. Dumbledore steered Harry towards a small chamber—desolate and barren of all furniture, just the wooden walls.

Harry leaned against the wall, and crossed his shoulders across his chest before giving Dumbledore his undivided attention. He noticed immediately that the old man was still anxious. "How did your meeting conclude, Harry? Minister Fudge didn't seem at all pleased when he rushed out... In fact, I'm curious about that, Harry—why did Minister Fudge walk out bearing a striking resemblance to a constipated person."

Harry chuckled at that.

"I'm afraid the Minister is going to have to answer that on his own."

Dumbledore didn't even miss a beat. He cocked his head to the side. When Harry looked in that direction, he saw Fudge lumbering down towards them—a dozen Aurors, or so, behind him. "Thankfully, I will have not long to wait." Dumbledore's eyes twinkled merrily behind his half-moon glasses.

"Cornelius," Dumbledore greeted in an assertive voice.

Looking flustered and determined, Fudge parked up in front of Dumbledore's face, looking insignificant, as usual. "Dumbledore... I am afraid I have some bad news." Fudge glanced nervously at Harry, who gave him a confident nudge—trying to numb his jitters.


	5. Hormones and Dark Manors

Ginny Weasley glanced up as the fire flared and spat out Albus Dumbledore—wearing a curiously stony countenance. She craned her neck, peering behind him, frowning, for she hadn't glimpsed Harry. And Dumbledore didn't seem at all concerned by his absence. Or maybe he was—that would sufficiently explain the absence of his eccentric self.

"You might want to stop peeking around me, Miss Weasley... I'm afraid Mr. Potter will not be residing here any longer."

The sluggish crowd situated around the dining table were galvanized by Dumbledore's words. Hestia Jones was first to her feet—her chair clattering against the marble floor. Closely followed by Lupin and Black, the three of them were centimeters from invading Dumbledore's personal space.

"What d'you mean by that, Dumbledore?" Black asked, almost accusingly. "You promised me we'll be acquanted with him by the end of the day."

Dumbledore sighed. "Yes, that was my hope..."

Kingsley Shackebolt, who had chosen to remain in his seat, voiced Ginny's thoughts. "But...?" prompted Kingsley. The dark-skinned Auror—displaying rigid composure—calmly, almost idly, rose to his feet.

Dumbledore reached for his glasses, wiped them clean with the hem of his eccentric flashy golden robes, and placed them back on his nose. "Harry Potter—with the unforeseen assistance of our esteemed Minister—is now on his own... once more."

That left Ginny stumped and bemused. Guess he doesn't need my help anymore, Ginny conceded—unable to restrain a scowl. _Bummer_. She'd been relishing an opportunity to prove herself more than a weak damsel with a penchant for saving every few years. To erase the impression she must have imprinted upon Harry when she lay limp in his arms as he hefted her out of the Chamber of Secrets all those years ago.

"Disappointed, Miss Weasley?" Dumbledore probed.

"As are you, I'm sure," Ginny shot back, a relish in her voice insurmountable by her own volition.

"Ginny," Hestia cried, positively aghast, an expression of askance painted across her face.

A growl sounded—rather canine-like. It hailed from Sirius, spotting a gob-smacking gutted profile. "Can we get back to the issue at hand? My godson is alone on the streets of London—in distressing proximity of Voldemort himself."

Ginny forgot to shudder at Tom Riddle's anagram, her thoughts engrossed by another far more startling revelation. "Harry's your Godson?" Talk about lying by omission.

Flaring orbs resembling thundering storms focused on her and, suddenly, Ginny regretted expressing her curiousity and ignorance over that rather moot point—her stomach churning, leaving her slightly light-headed. "Yes—you were unaware?" a belittling tone crept into Black's words.

Ginny bridled at that, averse to appearing ingenuous. "It's not public knowledge, is it?" she retaliated coolly.

"I'm afraid not, Miss Weasley," Dumbledore interjected calmly. "Your woes do not halt there, I'm afraid, because I must request your temporary expulsion from the premises."

Ginny scowled at that, crossing her arms across her chest in a picture of mutiny. "Why?"

"Ginny," Hestia's voice carried a mild warning.

Dumbledore chuckled. "No, it's quite alright, Hestia. Curiousity is not anything to be devoid of. Miss Weasley, I ask that you leave because your parents would be opposed, understandably, to you becoming privy to what I intend to discuss with those currently present."

"So you don't think I can handle the news..." She turned to leave, her reluctance probably palpable.

Dumbledore nodded solemnly. "I'm glad you understand, Miss Weasley."

* * *

It was a pleasant summer night.

A balmy air slithered and meandered across South-West-England, conjuring satisfied smiles on the faces of people indulging themselves in the forlorn hope of a return to a lithe figure. Stout spinsters ambled down the pavements, frequently stopping to chat with neighbours trimming or lawning their garden (some—suspiciously shirtless).

Contrary to the appearance of a facet of Bristol, another face of Bristol was rowdy. The pavements, gardens and streets were littered with a proliferation of plastic cups, aluminium cans, broken bottles, discarded food, wrappers, condoms, etc... In fact, at that very moment a group of about fifty teenagers capered about clumsily in the night, beaming however like they were thoroughly enjoying themselves—obnoxiously loud music blaring in the night.

Down the street, however, a cluster of trees emerged into sight, previously concealed by the dimness of the night. But suddenly, a blinding silver light shone like a beacon—and the trees shoehorned into view.

Then a deep rumble reverberated along with the rustling of leaves as a huge gush of frigid wind raced past. Screams of terror and fright echoed loudly in the pitch-black sky. Another deep rumble sounded—longer in duration this time, surviving at least fifteen seconds... and then a deep rift in the cluster of trees appeared; barely visible to an eye not punctilious.

In the rift—pitch-black. Then, a fleeting blinding ray of light—and then a tall man stood. Confident—almost condescending—stance, clad in patently exbortitant sable robes, almost impossible to discern in the night. He would have been, if not for the teeny lighting the sleek blonde hair plastered on the man's head provided.

The man stood rigid, as if waiting for something—or someone...

A soft pop sounded... And then another, a mere two seconds later. Still, not a twitch, a quiver, nor any indication of the slightest discomfort... Three more pops.

Finally, a reaction.

The blonde-headed man nodded, ostensibly to himself.

Then he broke into a hurried amble—somehow still managing to appear relaxed despite the rather rapid pace of his gait. Leaves crunched underneath his steps—the only sound in the night. But it didn't only hail from the man's footsteps. There were several occurrences when the crunch of a dead leaf laying on the floor sounded when the man's feet weren't responsible.

About two minutes later, maintaining the same brisk pace, the man encountered a clearing. Then came to a grating halt.

He cocked his head all around, searching for something... Nods to all sides of him ensued. A deep breath, then the man stretched out his left hand.

He hissed, obviously in pain, but did not retract his hand. A grimace contorted his handsome face and a large wedge formed in his throat. Then came a sigh of blissful relief and his hand fell limp to his side.

A soft but insistent hiss suddenly sounded and the man nodded to himself, ostensibly spurred into action. He straightened his shoulders and glanced up.

A wide, gravel driveway had appeared in the man's lapse—but he hardly seemed puzzled by the revelation, rather something akin to expectant and oddly pleased. Flanking the driveway were the heads of some grisly creatures with rather pointy ears.

Looming at the conclsuion of the driveway was a menacing dark castle—a gruesome image inhumanly hovering in the night just before one progressed into the castle; a glittering green rotten skull with a serpent protruding out from the mouth.

Ghastly as the image was, there was no indication of unease as the man sauntered past. Elegantly.

Centimeters beyond the image was the entrance door—gigantically tall with that gruesome image of the snake and the skull imprinted into the middle. The door quite simply vanished as the man approached it.

And now, he was in a large corridor. Lit only by sumptuous silver portraits of people lining the walls. A thud sounded as the door reappeared.

The man froze. A hiss sounded, echoing in the corridor.

"We're here, Draco Malfoy..."

Draco Malfoy sagged in relief and continued his jaunty walk down the long corridor—patently unbothered by the footfalls he was unresponsible for, reverberating due to the marble floor.

At the end of the corridor was a large silver door with a green serpent-shaped knob. Rigid as a statue, Draco dug into his robes, produced a mask and placed it onto his face so that the only thing that could be discerned about him was his cold grey eyes, gleaming in the gloom. He pivoted on the spot, his back to the door, and nodded. He hissed something into the air, made an odd V with his index finger and his thumb...

Draco turned once more, this time to face the door, heaved a tremendous sigh and twisted the doorknob.

He emerged into a small, triangular shaped chamber with three different doors. All different...

The one on the left was a rather simple bronze door. On the right was a baroque green door with a serpent in the shape of an S carved on it. And in the middle was a large, ornate, overbearing double-door with the image of the serpent protruding out of the mouth of the skull...

Looking like he'd rather not, Draco stretched out his hands...

The door pushed back before his palms could connect with it.

Now, he was in a wide room. The walls—almost blinding purple—demanded attention, which it garnered, but only fleetingly. For there were several things to engross a person in that room.

The room was illuminated by a finely carved fireplace—which, incredibly, was on the ceiling, a healthy fire cackling merrily. Hovering in the air, a safe but intriguing distance underneath the toasty fire was a wrinkled bedraggled grey-haired woman, hands and legs sprawled out—her back to the fire, pasty as she stared down at an ornate circle table.

The table seated much less than it's potential. Potentially able to seat around thirty people—the table barely seated twenty...

Twenty or so heads swiveled to stare at Draco upon his arrival—oddly enough, all of them were without masks. "Welcome," said a soft voice hailing from the head of the table where a man sat _,_ rigid, idly twirling a wooden object in his long, thin fingers—his slit-like scarlet eyes glinting maliciously.

Draco nodded coldly. Distrusting, peeved glares focused on him as he elegantly manoeuvered in and out of their paths and slipped into the seat on the left of the man who had spoken.

"You are late," hissed the scarlet-eyed man. The congregation sat up a little straighter at that, seemingly keen to observe the following proceedings. Yet, they eschewed the eyes of the speaker with experience and a hint of repressed fear—masked with false confidence...

Draco hardly seemed bothered. "Forgive me, Voldemort, I encountered some... unforeseen... complications and I'm afraid I fell prey to temptation... my Lord."

There was sick, diabolical tilt to Voldemort's thin lips. His slit-like nose twitched as he chuckled. "Couldn't help ourselves, could we?" Sniggers broke out. Voldemort raised his wand and the laughter immediately ceased. Draco didn't fidget, but calmly gazed back into Voldemort's scarlet eyes under perusal.

"You covered your tracks...?" Voldemort hissed—an underlining tone that suggesting that a negative response would be a pyhsical dynamite.

The crowd stared on hungrily. "My Lord, you underestimate me..."

Voldemort chuckled humorlessly. "My mistake..." The crowd stiffened at that, evidently displeased at Voldemort's leniency towards Draco—glaring vehemently at him.

"Now that we're all present..." Voldomort spared Draco a brief, raking glance. His followers utilized the moment to clearly express their feelings for the man with their eyes. "I would like to inquire if anyone noticed our guest?" He pointed his wand heavenward.

Several followed his gaze. And then shuddered—some... in excitement. Only two people hadn't glanced up. Draco... and a sallow-skinned man with greasy dark hair and a long nose, draped in sable robes.

"Her name is Arabella Doreen Figg..." There was alot of frowns. Voldemort chuckled. "I highly doubt you know her... In fact, I would be... _displeased_..." a shudder went through the assembly—few imperceptible, most conspicious—"...if you knew who this woman was..."

Worried glances were exchanged. "My lord," began a woman—haggard face with shiny, thick dark hair and oddly enough, a strong-looking jaw. She stared at Voldemort with something akin to adoration, in deep contrast with the others: Suppressed fear, admiration, impassive...

"Who—"

"I was getting there, Bella," interrupted Voldemort curtly. Bella flushed at the muffled sniggers. She lowered her head.

"I apologize, my Lord."

Voldemort nodded coldly, ostensibly accepting the apology—if Bella's sag of relief was a reliable judging point. "She happ—" A scream of terror sounded.

Panicked glances were exchanged as another one swiftly followed. Shadowing the scream was several more. And then the sound of footfalls. Voldemort sat upright—but taut and unmoving—his eyes evincing his musing over proceedings. His followers stared at him with rapt attention. Ostensibly not demoralized in the slightest by the attention on him, Voldemort simply twirled his wand in his palm, waiting as screams sporadically sounded...

The double-door entrance burst open. A thin man with bushy grey-hair draped in a fine silk robe, rushed in—looking distressed. "My Lord—"

"What is the issue, Travers?" Voldemort asked in what seemed to be his trademark unctuous voice.

Travers gulped, possibly unnerved by the curious stares of Voldemort's followers. He bent down to one knee and bowed. "My Lord, we are under attack."

The people present fidgeted in their seats, gaping at Voldemort. Who remained unmoved, though his scarlet eyes flashed. "Under attack...?"

"Yes, my Lord."

"By whom?"

"It seems to be five people. My Lord," Travers quickly injercted.

Voldemort—a nasty sneer on his grotesque face—gazed at every single person present in turn; briefly. "Death Eaters... go... and make an example of those foolish enough to dare attack my fortress." His followers sluggishly staggered to their feet, faces scrunched—possibly puzzled by their instructions. "Go," Voldemort hissed.

They scurried out the door, barely eschewing from trampling Travers to death; some—Bella, the sallow-skinned man and Draco—with startling finesse considering the situation.

In the chamber, the sound of the battle rang rather loudly—impossible to ignore. Bella glanced sharply at Travers. "Where?" A few shivered.

Travers lifted a trembling finger in the direction of the baroque green door. The Death Eaters stormed forward before his finger had even fallen limp once more. Bella—appearing to be spear-heading the group—waved her wand in the motion of a circle. An explosion sounded and all that remained of the door was lumpy smithereens littering the marble floor.

The Death-Eaters delicately held up their robes as they diligently attempted to skirt sullying their robes. Behind the door was an enormously wide corridor—devoid of illumination.

Oddly enough, the shrill screams of terror had ceased.

The atmosphere was ripe with edgy energy cackling madly. The shadows of Death-Eaters weaved within one another that it was impossible to differentiate one from another.

"Lumos."

A minuscule illumination came by method of a bright beam of light.

"Brilliant, Nott." The speaker had a soft voice but when the light exhibited the person's appearance—burly with a bowl-style hairstyle and a flat nose.

In a measly few seconds, the corridor was brightly illuminated as more and more people murmured the word "Lumos". The floor was made of smooth, sable marble. The corridor was lined on both sides by black-tilted walls. It was barren of all decorations. No portraits. No windows. Nothing. At the end of the corridor, however, a door loomed...

"C'mon," Bella ordered. She broke into a hurried gait, brandishing her wand—treading forward rather cautiously.

A tidy amount of the Death-Eaters immediately followed after her. But a teeny amount didn't obey her command. Draco, the hook-nosed man, and a waxy-skinned, blonde-haired man who bore a rather fascinating resemblance with Draco. They happened to share the same eyes.

Bella glanced over her shoulder—and frustration was evident as she swivelled around. People rushed to plaster themselves against the wall. The corridor lost a bit of illumination. Nobody seemed to notice, for there were no comments. "What are you waiting for? _He_ has ordered us." Her flinty stare stood first on Draco's look-alike, then onto the hook-nosed man—where it intensified; before finally landing on Draco—where it went through the roof.

"Indeed he has, Bella," began the greasy-haired man in a rather oily tone. Bella glowered darkly; the man seemed unimpressed. Contrary to the vast majority of the onlookers. "But I fail to recall him mentioning you leading this..." a vicious smirk settled on his thin, crusty lips, "... mission." He tilted his head to the side, wearing a thoughtful frown. "Do you recall anything of the sort, Lucius?"

A miffed lour distorting his face directed at the sallow-skinned man, Lucius said, rather stiffly, "No, I do not, Severus."

Severus looked childishly pleased—spotting a shameful gleeful beam; his yellow teeth even making an appearance.

"What does it matter, Severus?" Bella said bitterly. "Let us do our duty, and then we can... discuss this."

Severus sneered but then calmly walked up to Bella and her group—Draco and the waxy-skinned chap following, dragging their feets begrudgingly as they brought up the rear of the re-assembled Death-Eaters.

At the conclusion of the corridor was a door of polished mahogany. With a serpent-shaped doorknob. Still, the screams of terror were absent. But the door swayed on it's hinges. And varying colours flashed briefly in the air.

A tinge of fear was palpable as the Death-Eaters came to a grating halt.

Bella glanced behind her where an enormous man with blonde hair stood, his brow furrowed with intense concentration. "You," she snapped, pointing her wand—which had somehow appeared in her hand. The man glanced at her with fearful eyes. Bella sneered. "Open the door."

"Madam...?" Bella whirled around—looking positively feral.

Bella's nose flared. The man whimpered. A few sniggers erupted. The man nodded to himself and hurried forward. Before he could extend his hands forward, however, the door was blasted off it's hinges. The man flew through the air, connecting with the wall and slowly trickling down, landing on the floor with a dull thud.

The footfalls of an approaching person accumulated the regard of the collective Death-Eaters. When the resultant soot had cleared, three geezers stood—arrogant smirks on their faces.

"Miss me, Bella?" asked what seemed to be the leader of the group.

A green-eyed chap with a chiseled jaw and a messy mop of jet-black hair dumped on his skull—wand in each finger-less glove. The lad was clad in nothing but sable sweatpants. Exposing his lithe, well-defined upper body. A very odd tattoo adorned his chest. It was a serpent. Of whom's body was bedecked in a decorative green. Yet it's head was a garish scarlet. What was even weirder—the snake was in the shape of a V. And two elegant silver swords were crossed against the snakes.

This was Harry Potter.

A very amused one—but he wasn't going to be mentioning that. Bella looked utterly befuddled. "Potter? What are—" A bright beam of orange sailed towards Bella, hailing from Andrew—good lad! Take advantage of any advantage you have—no matter how infinitesimal!

Unfortunately, Bella was blessed with _adequate_ reflexes. In a flash, she waved her wand upward in a sharp line; Harry recognized the hand motions to a reasonably strong shield. The orange beam dissipated just before it could strike her. She stared, wide-eyed, at him—rather questioningly.

Andrew and Liza had no such questions. Liza let loose a Killing Curse fly—though it missed it's target; a one Mr. Dolohov—and Andrew conjured a ginormous serpent. The Death-Eaters skitted back, wary of the hissing sound of the serpent. Bella looked murderous.

Harry made a face of mock surprise. "I'm sorry, did I do something wrong?" His snicker was drowned out by a loud, rippling sound reverberated in the compressed corridor. Andrew's serpent vanished at his loss of concentration.

Bella's frown of concentration quickly turned into one of pure horror. She gasped as she fell to the ground, motionless—lifeless... an arrow—aflame—stuck out from her leg...

Harry smirked at her unmoving form—thinking just how lucky he was to have Emily on his side, not against. He had to put in conscious effort to refrain from shuddering at the thought of Emily as his foe. Merlin above, he'd never know peace.

The Inner-Circle— _to be fair to them_ —would probably also never know peace had they not attacked them at that point (Voldemort was obdurate like that), but Harry rather fancied staying alive. And so with a clear conscience, Harry conjured an admittedly excessively large boulder—better safe than sorry, he figured.

Harry glanced to his right. "Fuck me sideways," he cursed under his breath. whilst he was on the defensive, his friends seemed to thoroughly enjoying themselves—beams on their faces as they carelessly traded hexes with the Death-Eaters.

Anguished screams filled the air and Harry entertained the notion that perhaps his assistance wasn't direly required. Because Andrew most certainly wasn't screaming. And neither was Liza—though he doubted she ever did; excluding bonking, hopefully—though Harry sincerely hoped she didn't scream in that manner when a bloke went down on her. One would be hard-pressed _not_ to suspect rape. And in all honesty, who could blame the bloke...

Scowling—defending was boring, but admittedly necessary—Harry retreated a few steps back. He waved his wand in an intricate movement and his boulder disappeared. Immediately, a torrent of varying coloured spells came streaming towards him. Purple, sable, yellow, and that dreaded Killing Curse.

Bloody hell! It was obvious these blighters didn't intend to snuff it any time soon. Blimey! Surely they didn't think _Harry_ had plans to see Hades yet...

Harry ducked and the spells whistled over his head. He cautiously returned to a normal stance—but that turned out to be a mistake. Another stream of curses and hexes sought out Harry—noticeably lighter in quantity. Liza was cackling on Harry's right; somebody must have lost the ability to produce children.

Harry wasn't complaining. He was alive. And uninjured. He deftly circumvented the five spells coming his way and, a smile on his face, thought— _Bona Nox_. Crabbe Sr, Harry recognized from previous encounters, promptly dropped his wand when the spell collided with him—blinking repeatedly, undoubtedly baffled by the loss of his eyesight; though Harry was begrudgingly impressed the oaf had been able to see before in the dim lighting. Then Crabbe screamed.

His colleagues paid him no attention, rather occupied by Liza and the aflame arrows manifesting at serendipitous times—the Death-Eaters would most assuredly have contradicting opinions, but fuck them, they were trying to kill him. Emily would probably demand a raise after the battle. Harry banished the thought. If they survived, Harry would gladly bump up her salary. Okay, so not gladly...

Crabbe fell to the ground as a result of the Killing Curse. Harry winced. Ruthless, these Death-Eaters were. Oh, well. The world would be hard-pressed—really, really, hard-pressed—to ever miss Crabbe Sr. His gormless son would probably not even notice the absence of his father. That spoke volumes as far as Harry was concerned.

With the complication that was Crabbe Sr. eradicated—Harry was rather exempt of adversaries, gifting him loads of time to ponder his next move. The battle had morphed down-hill in intensity. Nearly half the Inner-Circle had dwindled into a murky memory, littering the marble floor. Unfortunately, the half that had been eliminated were the daft ones—excluding Bella. Bitch could handle a wand, for sure...

The Death-Eaters still on their feet certainly didn't appear ready to take a vacation three feet underneath the earth. Karkaroff—the twat!—was grunting and wheezing with similar vigour as a lad on the verge of finishing as he heartily exchanged spells with Andrew. Who was obviously one or two shades—three, maybe—more talented than Karkaroff. A fact seemingly conspicuous to the Death-Eaters. For poor Andrew wasn't allowed the liberty of dueling just Karkaroff. Nah, instead Avery (with his God-awful hair blonde hair), Rowle—the bellend—and the ultimate knobhead, Bartemis Crouch (his face more lined and older-looking than in their previous altercation; to be fair though, it had been a year ago) entertained Andrew.

Andrew wasn't faring spectacularly—but he was surviving. Which was more than could be said for Liza.

The Death-Eaters obviously remembered her from previous skirmishes. Perhaps the loss—or objectionable alteration—of one or two essential body parts. Or perhaps Liza's deranged cackle.

But Liza wasn't cackling madly as she capered around the spells being hurtled her way. She looked fierce—her long, blonde hair straggling over her face and her lips set tight. Quite frankly, it was a miracle she could see. The grip on her wand was tenuous—but opportunities to attack were scarce. Her opponents were Lucious Malfoy (aka Barbie), Antonin Dolohov (a real bastard if Harry'd ever known one), and Rodolphus Lastrange (an absolute nutter; prick was a pansy—not an issue really, but Harry generally preferred to put the advances on someone, not the other way round, thank you very much).

To be fair to Liza, though, she was still alive—if only just.

At that very moment, she collided with a conjured boulder—Dolohov had always been decent at Transfiguration; bastard—and stumbled to ground with a shrill scream. Harry winced. So perhaps he should have been thinking positive—he didn't happen to be a sanguine lad. Life on the streets made you pessimistic.

He started forward—but then a golden spell came barreling his way. Harry threw up a hasty shield—strong, though—promptly followed by a cutting hex of his invention... and then a swift Confringo—just to ascertain the demise of his opponent. Unless it was Voldemort, to which he should probably begin on his epitaph.

Thankfully, it wasn't the snake-faced scrote and he faced no impediment as he approached Liza and her predicament. Luckily, they had their back to him, in a circle—and the sound of Andrew's bid to remain alive sufficiently masked his footfalls; soft as they were. Their words, however, rang loudly—unfettered by Andrew's bid to remain alive.

Harry felt his blood boil as he overheard Barbie—crouching over Liza—explain (in very vivid detail) just how thoroughly he was going to shag the brains out of Liza, force her to bear him another heir and then decapitate her. Dolohov was trembling with an effort to contain his excitement, and tiny pants actually escape his mouth. And, if Harry wasn't mistaken—there was a fucking bulge protruding out his fucking robes. Merlin above, how happy could hearing a man describing rape make a girl—even if the bint _was_ Liza. Apparently, pretty fucking happy. Unless, of course, Dolohov had a substitute wand hidden down there.

Harry was indifferent to this. He didn't even consider it, excluding a cursory cogitation.

A non-verbal "Everte Statum," to Rodolpus. Reprobate went flying, eventually sliding down the wall and landing on the floor, limp, next to _dear Bella_. Dolohov whirled around at the commotion. To give the twit some credit, he did manage to parry his Jelly-fingers Curse—even with trembling hands. Harry actually felt sorry—very fleetingly—for the damaged wall. Fuckwit Dolohov stood no chnace against lightning, however.

Barbie had noticed the absence of his companions. Stiffly, he turned—looking rather uncomfortable. Fear shone in his eyes as he regarded Harry.

"Why, hello, Barbie..." Harry raised his wand.

Before he could cast a spell, however, there was a rushing sound and then Barbie fell to the floor, his eyes glazing over. An aflame arrow stuck out from the area where generally the bollocks was located. Harry couldn't help but wince. He most definitely didn't want to be Lucius Malfoy right now. What with all the whining... Wonder where Draco inherited that from?

Harry was mighty ruffled, however, not to have delivered the final blow to Malfoy. He was forced to file his resentment away as Liza groaned, stumbling to her feet—the beginnings of a large bruise coagulated right smack in her forehead. Harry rushed forward to help, but the tetchy berk waved him away—a mortified flush to her cheeks. When she swayed precariously, however, Harry spied no other option than to assist.

Andrew's scream reverberated.

In a hasty decision, Harry abandoned Liza to her doom—even ignoring her desperate plea for help; he was going to regret that later, he already knew—and ran towards the commotion. When he arrived on the scene, however, Andrew was sluggishly staggering to his feet, dusting himself off some imaginable soot.

Harry blinked at him—nonplussed—then turned his attention to Andrew's fallen combatants. Karkaroff had kicked the bucket, his eyes still very open. Andrew was impatient like that. Avery, oddly bedraggled—twerp must not have been enjoying Andrew's delightful company; Harry couldn't blame the twerp—wasn't breathing. Rowle was now without his head—and Harry felt his stomach churn at the sight. Barty—lucky swine—seemed to be simply unconscious.

Harry raised his wand to rectify that—but the staccato of footfalls halted him. He whirled around—and felt his blood run cold.


	6. Duels and Death

He'd gotten uglier—if that was even possible anymore. He was now horribly bald. He obviously hadn't been utilizing the summer properly—for his skin was pallid as snow. And now, he was skeletal. You could practically see the bones and the veins threatening to pop out.

But that wasn't the impetus for Harry's frigid blood flow. His surrogate mother—the reason behind his infiltration of Lestrange Manor to begin with—was being levitated... body seemingly flaccid... head bobbing as she came... eyes open, but unseeing... dead...

He didn't even think. It just happened. The curse fell from his lips, natural like magic was. And filled with utter loathing.

"Crucio."

A beam of radiant scarlet burst out of the wand in his right hand and raced towards Voldemort. Whose lips morphed into a wry smirk as he gave his wand a sharp jerk. Harry's whole being trembled on the spot at the blatant disrespect.

To be ignored... so dismissively, after the one person he owed his very existence to lay defenceless and in the hands of the despicable toerag who shouldered—proudly, too!—the culpbabilty of his orphaned state.

Figg moved swiftly in the air. One moment—she straggled behind Voldemort. The next, she was in front of Voldemort—in the nick of time to consume his curse.

Her screams reverberated—shrill and very much alive. White-hot knives slashed, stabbed and cut through his heart. Tears stung his eyes... his vision turned hazy... he was so tense... his wand suddenly weighed a shit-ton... it clattered to the ground.

The screams suddenly stopped. He couldn't help—and didn't really attempt—to restrain his sigh of relief.

Voldemort was once again in view. Figg was again behind him, still hovering in the air. And Voldemort's smile was as smarmy as ever. "All right, Potter?"

Harry bristled at that—nothing more. A nagging pain in his knees alerted him to his present state. Flushed—for he was mortified—he quickly rose to his feet, snagging his wand off the ground. He didn't bother responding. Ardenaline tingled in his veins... his hair stood erect on the nape of his neck.

Instead, he chose to exploit Voldemort's temporary lapse of concentration to fire an offensive spell towards him. _Cortuda_. Harry gave his wand a zealous horizontal swipe.

A purple mist of light exploded out of Harry's wand and rushed toward Voldemort.

 _Ekmulsfiy_. Harry waved his wand in the motion of a circle.

A beam of deep black shadowed by the most blinding white light bursts out of Harry's wand and hurtled towards Voldemort.

 _Emuevo ignis_. Harry gave his wand a sharp, violent tug.

A yellow-coloured spell burst out of Harry's wand—hot on the tails of the previous spell.

 _Enico poena ex_ —

Then came those screams. They would haunt his nightmares, Harry already knew. To hear the woman who loved him, assuredly more than he loved himself—scream in agony... and to be responsible for that. To have caused her so much pain...

Once again, the screams came to an aprubt halt.

Harry sucked in a desperate gulp of air.

Figg floated away once more, bringing the skeletal profile of Voldemort back into view. Dastard was grinning maniacally—his yellow teeth present for the world to glimpse. "Something wrong, Harry?"

Harry spied Figg, floating in the air behind Voldemort. She was rigid. A faint blue aura persisted around her. He scowled, realizing that she was still under the effects of one of his spells—Ekmulsify. So Voldemort was using her to defend himself. How clever... to use an animated object... to eradicate the possibilty of an opponent simply vanishing your defences... For a life force couldn't be simply vanquished... Not that Harry would ever attempt to—considering the aforementioned person.

And how positively bloody typical of Voldemort... To have his opponent on the defensive before the duel had even begun... so bloody typical...

It was lightning quick... It was Voldemort's preferred method of dueling... The fucker generally loved to have the contest trounced over in mere seconds... and then taunt them at his will, until boredom slowly seeped in, compelling him to simply... mercifully... gift Death...

But Harry wasn't normal...

The excessively rapid pace of Voldemort's attack—whilst admittedly terrifying—didn't curb him into paralysis. He recognized the shaft of blue light tinged with scarlet specks at the hem as the Entrail-Expelling Curse. A nasty piece of work that—like it's name suggested—expelled the body's entrails. With an effortless hand motion, he conjured a flock of birds to devour the curse. Defence had always been his forte. Come to think of it, so had Transfiguration...

And surviving...

So he wasn't so callow to believe—even entertain the notion—that he had idle time. And sure enough, when the final fragments of the birds had vanished—there was a daunting Killing Curse heading Harry's way.

Cursing, Harry circumvented the curse—mentally praising his nimble footwork—but saw, much to his consternation, that another Killing Curse was coming his way. Voldemort wasn't in the mood for games, it would appear... Neither was Harry...

Harry danced around the fatal curse. He winced as he heard the notorious rushing sound that accompanied the Killing Curse in his ear, rather grateful for his continous existence...

Another curse—the Cruciatus Curse, this time—came charging towards Harry. But this time it hailed—not from Voldemort—but from his right. Harry swiftly conjured a sofa to suffer in his place—and hurled a Mutatio Skullus in the vicinity the curse had come from...

The scacrlet flash of light had barely vacated the premises of his wand when a Killing Curse rushed towards him—once more, the caster was not Voldemort. It hailed from behind Harry. Skipping around the curse, he raised his wand—Cruciatus on his lips—but then was forced to duck another Killing Curse, from the left this time...

"Stop!" Voldemort bellowed. "He's mine." As if to prove his point, he waved his wand in a intricate manner, and a stream of green-coloured water was ejected from his wand—and, funnily enough, was heading Harry's way.

Harry retaliated by transfiguring the water into a den of snakes. "Defend me, don't attack..." Harry hissed—making sure to do so quietly...

Voldemort didn't seem to appreciate his natural Transfiguration affinity. Or perhaps he did, and sending three Killing Curses at Harry was his method of displaying his admiration...

Anyhow, Harry levitated the collective snakes to await their impeding death. Unfortunately, they only collectively survived two Killing Curses before leaving Harry defenceless. Thankfully, Harry was graced with phenemonal reflexes...

Voldemort was so impressed with him, he hurled another Killing Curse at Harry.

He deftly manoeuvered himself out of the path of the curse—just as an agonized scream echoed. A quick glimpse in Voldemort's direction allayed Harry's fear; Figg wasn't the one screaming. Which meant that those flashes of light Harry ignored—he possessed an amazing predilection for living; distractions achieved the exact opposite—was evidence of a struggle between the remaining Death Eaters and a gravely injured Liza and Andrew. Harry sincerely hoped they danced around the bucket...

His thoughts segued to available methods of blocking the Blinding Hex. Eventually, he settled on the simple—yet effective and nifty—Protego.

A brick wall to counter a Cruciatus Curse. A scream came from Figg after Harry flung the stones Voldemort's way. Bastard patently sufficed to ignite a flame in Harry's heart... Death would be too kind!

As he diligently skirted out of Death's reach, he contemplated manners to forge an attack of his own... A successful one—preferrably, one that didn't physically ail Figg... Mentally—one could only hope...

Voldemort snarled, obviously displeased by Harry's resilience. A whole five minutes now, they'd been going—the average wizard would be knackered at this point... Harry was just warming up. Voldemort seemed to have arrived at that conclusion, as well. And it didn't make him any more jovial... If it did, Harry wasn't seeing nor feeling it...

Because the way Figg had taught him was devoid of hurling Bone-Breaking Curses, a lethal cutting hex, a virulent Weight-gain curse, a rather powerful Sleeping Charm, and conjuring a hand the size of a giant... Though, admittedly, Figg was without magical abilities, but still...

Somehow, Harry managed to escape that flurry of curses unscarred—but more rounds like those, and he wouldn't be progressing past the half-hour mark...

Next up on Voldemort's list of curses was the Daydream Curse. Harry leerily deflected that back to Voldemort. Voldemort, initially, brought Figg to shield himself. But Harry was placid to the possibility of Figg under a Day-dream Curse. In fact, it would be reather welcome on his part.

That very thought was the spur behind Harry firing another powerful curse—but not fatal; the Sleeping Curse ( _Peelostog_ ). He followed this up with with a slight risk—the Boggart's Coming ( _Quaeso Pavor Mutatio_ ). A dangerous curse that—if successful—morphed the caster into the victim's biggest fear. It required a second—just a second—of _total_ penetration into the mind of the victim to be fruitful—something that Harry doubted he'd obtain, unfortunately...

 _Mutatio Skullus_.

Figgs would be forever mentally scarred by the prospect of having two heads—yes!—but Harry figured she would stumble out of this battle owning a proliferation of scars that she'd barely recognize another... Especially one that could be so easily remedied... Considering it wasn't deadly...

Voldemort was now thoroughly on the defensive—much to Harry's pleasure. Becuase now he needn't worry about the curses he sent Voldemort's way... Dounder was already occupied with trying to evade Harry's surreptitious attack.

 _Rima muto geno_. The Knee-shattering hex—a deep yellow, bordering on blinding gold, in hue—raced towards Voldemort, who found himself stuck ridding himself off the niggling Boggart's coming. The Mutatio Skullus inched ever closer, and Harry began to entertain the idea of Volemort with two heads...

 _Reicio_.

The green merged with a pale blue had barely ejaculated out of Harry's wand when he thought, _Sagitas de favor_ —giving his wand a sharp jab. Twelve arrows wrapped in the confines of a fiery outline raced towards Voldemort—emitting off a balmy atmosphere and the roar of a lion. Meanwhile, Voldemort remained one-headed. Shame...

 _Sectusempra_.

 _Slugulus Erecto_.

 _Serponsertia dodice_.

Twelve snakes burst out of his wand, staring at him with docile, attentive eyes— waiting for instructions. " _Attack that man_." _Arania Exumai_.

The snakes went flying in Voldemort's direction. Voldemort froze at the sound of the snake's hissing. The Head-Severing Curse missed Voldemort by inches. The close shave with Death spurred Voldemort back into action. Just in time to throw up a powerful shield to ward off the Fiery Twelve Arrows.

Harry cursed, realizing how sloppy and foolhardy he'd been with his attacking phase. In all honesty, should Voldemort once again be in the contest—he'd only have himself to blame...

With that thought in mind, Harry mentally climbed into another dimesnion of curses.

Harry waved his wand in a vertical line. _Arcent evomi_.

The hive of a bee appeared directly above Voldemort immediately after a sickeningly gleeful beam appeared on his face—obviously ecstatic to have warded off Harry's stagnant attack. In one moment, the bee hive lost momentum—then accumulated mass momentum, and in one go, devoured Voldemort's head whole from sight. Voldemort stiffened—obviously aware that any sharp movements would reap a catastrophic corollary.

Harry waved his wand in the motion of television antenas. _Anteoculatia_.

He drew a circle with his wand. _Ansa cupla caecus_.

His wand towards the sky, he thought— _Aqua Nero_. Clouds immediately formed below the chandelier and thunder cackled. Voldemort glanced up (he'd managed to rid himself off the bee hive), momentarily derailed—which had been Harry's intention. The yellow curse of the antler-conjuring curse struck Voldemort and antlers immediately sprouted from Voldemort's skull. Harry was a tad too engrossed in staying alive to find humor in the situation...

Harry gave his wand an inverted horizontal swipe. _Aeufro Praecius_. A pure black beam of light erupted out of Harry's wand. Voldemort had just managed to dissipate Harry's binding charm when lightning struck from the thunderstorm and the thunderstorm immeiately evaporated. Voldemort glanced up just as the lightning went through him. He stumbled, off-balanced... His robes singed and tattered in places, steam billowing out from his head.

Harry twisted his wand, anxious to capitlize on this fortuitous opening. _Baubilous_. Lightning raced out of his wand.

 _Caliente_. A burst of balmy air flowed out of Harry's wand. Voldemort was combatting the lightning—fucking rotter utilized Conjuration. Voldemort cried out in pain when the air connected with his skin. He staggered on his feet, dazed, wiping at his face...

 _Carpe Retractum_ , Harry thought, struck by a brilliant epiphany. His berth tingled as he sailed in the air towards Voldemort, landing on his two feet before Voldemort just as he cleared the impediment that was the balmy air with a rigid jerk of his wand.

Harry drew back his fist and connected with Voldemort's skeletal face. A sharp, stinging pain followed this. His hand actually ached within his finger-less gloves. Voldemort's chin was horribly bony... At least Voldemort was hurting. Bastard was bent over, hissing in pain. Harry suspected Voldemort had long since forgotten what physical pain felt like... What a bloody excellent moment to remind him!

Harry opened his hand, permitting his wands to clatter to the ground. He willed his daggers to appear in his hands and seconds later, the comforting sensation of his daggers gracing his finger-less gloves once—a hum suggesting that it desired blood...

Voldemort had managed to return to an up-right standing stance. The fact that Harry still faced his back didn't encourage Harry of Voldemort's pain tolerance...

Voldemort swiftly whirled around—and Harry shuddered at the expression of seriousness on Voldemort's face. Previously, he'd only known irritation from Voldemort... To be utterly despised by the most feared Dark Lord of the past century generally didn't bode well for one's continous well-being...

Harry dropped his daggers, just as a pure black spell sizzled out of Voldemort's wand... _Accio_ , he though—holding out his hands—brazenly staring as the novel spell raced towards Harry. Just as Harry's wands returned to his hand, he threw himself to the side...

The spell enveloped around him and forced him to the ground...

Harry knew pain...

What he didn't know was having breathing hurt...

On a whim, as he sluggishly staggered to his feet, he recalled the effects of the Devil's Kiss—a curse he'd read from an mangy old piece of parchment in Albania. _A curse, as dark as midnight, wider than the width of a broom... Difficulty_ — _and in some cases_ , _unable_ — _breathing... The Devil's Kiss is rumoured to have been invented by Herpo the Foul, himself..._

The rest of that parchment had been torn. Till this day, Harry had wondered what type of fucking stupid idiot would desire to pilfer an old piece of parchment from an invaluable scroll. Voldemort, apparently. Figures...

Said bastard wasn't even grinning although Harry—not by choice—rigidly walked, and wheezed. Bloody hell, it hurt... to fucking breath, fucking hurt... Fuck it all... And not just the fucking normal hurting... It was the fucking hurt that rendered you unconscious to reason... That maybe you should just fucking die... Merlin, it wouldn't hurt this fucking much... Sure-fucking-ly...

"How are you this evening, Harry?" Voldemort inquired in a perfunctory tone.

" _Spiffing_." Harry winced as a sharp pain went through him. Bloody effing hell...

Voldemort chuckled, though it was barren of humor. That was all the warning Harry received before another curse—blue with a green and scarlet tinge at the hem; the fucking Transformigian Tortue. Harry cleverly danced around that curse but then fell straight into the path of a giant bludger. A sickening crunch told him his jaw was broken.

Would have been nice to know that Voldemort followed Quidditch, Harry thought bitterly, feeling the foreboding stiffness of his jaw as he stumbled to his feet.

A powerful torrent suddenly went through him and he was knocked back to the ground. He recognized this as the falling off the wards, and smiled... fleetingly... Blaise had come through... Unfortunately, his fucking body had to remind him that he was getting his arse flogged...

Voldemort was stiff as a board—bastard didn't look worried by the expulsion of his wards—his face impassive (which was actually pretty normal for the cunt, he supposed) his eyes unfocused on Harry. Who pushed to his feet—gritting his teeth to rein in a rather vulgar universe of expletives threatening to expunge him—and in a flash, thought _Khefa_. A golden spell roared out of his wand and raced toward Voldemort. _Le fenur_. A grey tinge of light flew out of Harry's wand, chasing the punching hex ahead of it—looking to haymake somebody...

One moment, there was Voldemort—his lips nearly invisible as he glowered—and the next, Figg blotted him. Harry blinked in total shock... He'd forgotten about Figg, he had—what with his fleeting moment of attack and getting seriously injured... But she looked unconscious, or at the very least—on the verge of it... Something that an immensely powerful punching hex would do little to improve...

His heart skitted to a stop, a combination—he figured—of the possibilty of Figg's passing and his injury.

Harry shuddered as Figg fell to the floor, without life... A cold, dreary sensation coated through his veins, settling in his heart... He'd killed his mother...

A groan of pain sounded and when Harry finally managed to effectively impede the oncoming tears—he saw Voldemort rising to his feet, a brand new wound (possibly the fucker's first ever), a shiny bruise on his jaw...

An intense sensation of anger went through him and he shuddered—not unlike a chap finishing—a curse flowing out from his mouth, hailing from the depths of his pit... a deep intense ire... inexorable...

"Avada Kedavra..."

As green as his very own eyes, but without the virtue that his oozed—and a foreboding rushing sound, frightening even the most daring of lions...

An arresting look of panic briefly flashed on Voldemort's face as he saw the curse. In one moment, the self-proclaimed "most powerful wizard of all time" was forced to employ muggle tactics to stay alive.

Voldemort looked stunned...

Harry let loose a deranged cackle. Bastard hadn't seen anything yet.

 _Nescius_. A green hue meshed with an electric blue formed the most powerful stunner known to Wizard-kind and approached Voldemort with a bid to rest him up... Naturally, Voldemort refused to even allow an accosting attempt and warded himself with a conjured pool of water—coincidentally in the shape of a serpent...

 _Os aspiret_. A white spell with a green tinge at it's hem sought out Voldemort who viciously swiped it away—looking mighty upset, his nose flaring...

Harry didn't pay it any heed... He was upset, as well, after all...

 _Plaga_. The powerful cutting-hex was actually invented by Draco—which perhaps explained it's grey hue. Interstingly enough, the spell couldn't be magically expunged... He was banking on Voldemort's arrogance of magic being superior...

Voldemort hissed in discomfort as a huge gash split open his stomach and his internal organs located in that vicinty was displayed to all... Blood flowed out in buckets, almost as if it was a lake journeying towards an ocean... He stared, fascinated, engrossed by the detail of Voldemort suffering... Entranced...

The blood underneath his dragon-hide boots compelled him to continue his attack. _Pluscius_. A cloud immediately appeared ahead of Harry and he swished his wand in Voldemort's direction—hoping to catch a staggering Voldemort unaware...

The Sleep-Inducing spell galloped, gathering in size and definity, towards Voldemort—who had just barely managed to rise to his feet, his eyes unfocused... Bastard looked out of it, swaying on his feet... his intenstines and both stomachs on display at a musuem like the bastard was a dead species, long forgotten.

A large, wispy, grey cloud gerth Voldemort now. A tremendous shudder went through the earth and Harry stumbled, but did not fall.

A thud sounded.

Voldemort was on the floor, his slit-like eyes closed... unmoving... but his chest heaved and Harry knew what he had to do...

The curse was on his lips. He shuddered with excitement, sweet beautiful revenge... To avenge his parents, to avenge himself... Without Voldemort—there would have been no Dursleys in Harry's world... No Figg... No Emily... No Andrew, probably... The list could probably make the basis of a fucking encyclopedia...

"Avada—"

"Harry," came a raspy voice. Harry glanced sharply in that direction. It wasn't Voldemort... Figg, perhaps... A wonderful sensation of hope blossomed in his heart, impossible to curb, roaring angrily, even assuaging the constant pain in his chest... Merlin above, it didn't hurt anymore... Breathing... He sucked in a huge breath...

Long footsteps he took—taking care to circumvent Voldemort's blood sullying the smooth, marble floor—and in seconds, he stared down at Figg, trying to ignore her pallid skin, hollow eyes, and blood-soaked dress...

"Figg," he whispered. Her eyes focused and a smile came upon her, and immediately some of the wrinkles disappeared. She stared at him with such adoration that it was easy to forget that she was slowly dying... Until her head fell limp to the side...

It was worst—uncomparable—than the Cruciatus Curse, or even the Devil's Kiss. Exponentially worst... He felt like his heart had been removed from it's position and instead, lay acid, mellowing his organs...

His legs turned to jellow, and he collapsed above Figg—desperate, pathetic sobs racking from him, but he didn't care. He didn't fucking care. All he wanted was for her to return back home with him—safe and happy. Not dead... Not dead...

He jumped to his feet—his hands tinted wih blood—fluid and unmoving as he surveyed the hall. He was the last man standing... Bodies of Death-Eater littered the smooth, marble corridor. As well as the bodies of his friends, Liza and Andrew. Bedraggled and rigid, but short, irregular breaths showed...

Voldemort, himself, was moving as well. Bastard's excessive reserve of magic probably effectively battled the Sleep-Inducing curse. Bastard would be sluggish for a while, however, and hopefully, dead...

"My son," Harry whirled around, staring down at the form of his mother. She was stiff, unmoving, not breathing... Her face was waxy and wrinkled, eyes closed... dead... But her mouth moved. "Fight, Live, Love..."

Harry blinked.

A wind slapped him in the face and in that very moment, he knew...

She was dead.

Like a pathetic, sniveling excuse of a squib, he kneeled above Figg—apathetic to the blood he soaked into his clothes—sobbing.

Memories ransacked his mind... Blissful memories, invaluable...

He grabbed her, pulling her closer, sniffing in her vanilla aroma... He thought of home... that moment when his life had been altered forever, for the better... He wished he was there... _Home_... There was a sharp tug to his stomach and he was siphoned into a narrow tube.

"Avada Kedavra," he heard, the voice filled with such desperation.

But Harry was already gone... To home, enclasped in his arms—the very first, living person to love him irrevocably...

Merlin, where was his heart...?


	7. Musings, Moanings and Meetings

In the wee hours of the morning, Albus Perceival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore—incidentally, Chief Warlock, Grand Sorceror and _former_ Supreme Muguwup (juggling the connundrum that was Voldemort and IGW at the same time proved impossible—even for a wizard of his calibre); but he didn't bother mentioning these on a regular basis as they tended to drag a conversation beyond saving—sat on his chair in his office staring out through the curtains, idly stroking his familiar's beak as he snoozed gently, contemplating...

The war against Lord Voldemort.

There could be no question—Voldemort was winning and would probably win this war. In a landslide, really. Tom was really quite brilliant when not in a frenzied rage—which he seemed to descend into frighteningly more frequently these days.

His second regin of terror—whilst still years shorter—had elicited a miserable sense of gloom to the Wizarding World. They were rather without something pivotal.

 _Hope_.

And without this essential ingredient, the Wizarding World couldn't effectively combat the forces of evil—and keep them abay. Which was why Voldemort's forces countinued to proliferate so quickly; Tom always did possess the acumen to become a successful politician.

The most frequent excuse employed by Death Eaters not quite cunning enough to evade abnormally lengthy vacations in intriguingly close proximity of the foulest creature in the Wizarding world—was that they couldn't see any other option than to align themselves with Tom.

What truly pained Dumbledore was that—at times—he could clearly glimpse why a person would be despondent and devoid of hope that they would even consider to ally themselves with Voldemort. On their own volition, to boot. Excluding a person tainted or influenced by Tom's remarkable persuasive prowess.

The Ministry of Magic!

In short, the Ministry was filled to the brim with ambitious cowards who craved power and affluency—but were too short-sighted to realize that would be their reward should they sufficiently protect the public from the brunt of Voldemort's reign of terror. Of course, they weren't totally at fault. Voldemort was an incredibly powerful wizard. And choosing to go against him often proved to be fatal. But living in that darkness constantly also was quite frankly uncomprehendible.

Of course, not everyone in the Ministry was tainted—just like everyone had a smidgen of good in them, at the very least. There were some truly exceptional individuals risking their lives, integrity and mental stabilty in the slim hope that perhaps the next generation could live their lives without constant worry for their safety.

It was people like Nymphadora Tonks, Amelia Bones, Kingsley Shackelbolt, Arthur Weasley—people who defied the wishes of their corrupt leaders to assist simply because their morals couldn't endorse otherwise—that empowered Dumbledore to continue fighting in times of strife and the pervasive darkness.

They gave him hope.

Unfortunately, the rest of the Wizarding World was riveted by Voldemort's march of terror and readily dismissed _their_ symbol of hope. Harry Potter's stalemate duel against Voldemort at the Ministry of Magic had brought about energy unseen for nearly two decades. But unfortunately, Voldemort had—once again displaying his remarkable stratagem— _persuaded_ their Minister to swiftly squash the hopes of the Wizarding world. This had been done in a cruel manner—a newspaper article reporting Harry Potter's death.

It truly hurt Albus that the Ministry supposed to assist the civilians instead opposed them without their knowledge.

He heaved a sorrowful, heavy sigh.

A knock sounded on his door. He frowned, wondering who would possibly seek a meeting with him this early in the morning.

"Headmaster, please—" Albus opened his office door with a flick of his hand. And behind it, stood Severus—his black eyes skittering about in their sockets.

"Come in, Severus." This should prove most interesting, he thought, watching as Severus took the visitor seat—immediately noting that Severus seemed oddly agitated.

"I come bearing urgent news, Dumbledore."

Albus inclined his head, leaning forward—the palpable excitement flying off Severus was rather contagious. "Oh?"

Severus smiled—a genuine smile. And Albus was certain his eyebrow flew off his face. "I am now convinced we might actually—one day—be rid of the Dark Lord."

Albus coughed in a discreet manner. "And my word did not manage to achieve this?"

"No, it did not," was Severus's unabashed response. Albus chuckled. Take nothing from Severus—the man had grit. Many in this world dared not utter such words against him. Viewing him with such in awe—and a tinge of fear. In in their delusion, of course.

"But Harry Potter managed this seemingly unattainable feat."

Any fatigue that Albus might have been battling Albus scurried away. He straightened in his seat. "Harry? What did he do?" He'd heard naught—absolutely nought—from or about Harry Potter since the boy's departure the afternoon before. And suffice it to say, he was curious.

Severus's smile effused blissful happinness. "He dueled the Dark Lord," Albus choked on his spite; Severus didn't seem to notice, too engrossed with his narrative, "and won."

Albus went into a coughing fit.

Merlin have mercy; if tales of Harry Potter victorious over Lord Voldemort didn't instill hope into the Wizarding world, he might as well begin scratching off his scheme for Harry Potter to enroll into Hogwarts this year. Becuase nothing could. This was cause for celebration. His brother's pub, The Hog's Head, provided twenty-four services. He just might have to pounce on this opportunity.

But first, he had to ask. "You're certain?"

He received a pointed glare from Severus. He couldn't help but smile. Good old Severus.

* * *

Grumbling heartily, Ginny rose to her feet, her face distorted courtesy of a mutinous frown. Up the sooty stairs, ignoring adults who felt it was their duty to protect her, smother her to death... Bloody hell, they should just have given birth to her, then, shouldn't they...?!

"Honestly!" she said with a huff, storming into her bedroom. The door rattled on it's hinges, but Ginny barely noticed—gripped by a reckless sense of abandon, compelling her to rage at anything in sight.

Even poor Hermione, startled out of her no doubt pleasant slumber—she had a goofy grin on her face; Dumbledore didn't have to tell her Ronneikins had been involved in a particular manner during that dream—looked enitrely deserving off a rant. Her hair was a bloody mess—that was reason enough. And she looked delirious with pleasure. Ginny opened her mouth to begin her rant, but the door creaked open.

She whirled about, a torrent of well-thought expletives on her lips.

"Hey, Ginny," began the oaf—as usual, a spot of dirt on his nose—fidgeting nervously. "Can you—"

"Leave?" Ginny finished for him with a snarl, her hands across her bosom. "So you and Hermione can screw each other!"

Ron sucked in a huge breath and his eyes—regrettably—managed to remain within their confines. Hermione gasped in horror behind her. Ginny was pleased by the turn of events. "You know about that?" Ron asked, his face seemingly aflame.

Ginny smirked. "There's a reason it's called a bloody Silencing Charm... for a bloody reason, Ronald. Bloody use it some bloody time."

"Oh, Merlin," Ron moaned in horror.

"Do you mean...?" came Hermione's uncertain voice, filled with humilation.

"That people could hear you riding my brother's broomstick?" Ron swallowed. "Oh, you're loud—I'll give you that, Hermione—but unfortunately, people downstairs in probably didn't overhear your Quidditch match. Not that it ever lasted more than a few minutes. I reckon you need a new broomstick, Hermione," Ginny quipped.

Ron shook with suppressed anger. Good for the idiot. Those sparodic Bat-Bogey-Hexes must have left their handprint somehwere. Assured of her safety, Ginny decided to drizzle a touch of salt onto the opened wound. "Just saying the truth," she said with a shrug.

Ron's jaw tightened and she could feel Hermione's death glare burning into her back. It would be rather wise to egress now, she decided. Hermione was one dangerous bitch when unfettered to reason.

"Well, remember to play nicely..." She broke into a brisk walk, walked past her brother—blowing him a swamy kiss—and then scurried away, skipping, whilst whistling "Let's all just keep our fingers crossed and hope for the best." Ron gnashing his teeth in anger was a source of great amusement for Ginny. She knew just how much he detested the Cannon's motto.

Ginny swiftly recalled the reason behind her ire when Hermione's moans of utter delight sounded as Ron continuously thumped into her. She snarled, disgusted with herself for her arousal. She was such a slag! She seriously needed to get laid! Soon, too. Virginity didn't earn a girl any favors once she hit sixteen. Bloody fucking hormones!

Her whole fucking life was a bloody mess. Exponentially worst than Hermione's hair when she arose from a delightful kip. Boys refused to simply bang her—scared, no doubt; the Weasley twins could be rather scary, Ginny would admit that. Her parents forbade her from attending the few parties that were arranged. So any stripling capable of shagging a girl silly were crossed off the list. And now, this year, she couldn't even shop. Thank you, You-Know-Who. So no quick snogs, either—from willing participants.

Ginny loathed You-Know-Who.

First, the bastard had defiled her first year of Hogwarts—and the stain was so great that it took another two years of social exertion on Ginny's part to bleach it off. And now, the only action that Ginny managed in a year had been forcibly stripped away. It wasn't bloody fair.

That reminded her of another person in an unjust situation—and was unjustly attractive—Harry bloody Potter. Merlin above, she was infatuated with the word _bloody_ , wasn't she? Harry Potter, too. Fuck. She was royally and undisputedly fucked. So was her life.

Why was she here again?—subjecting herself to the mental trauma of eavesdropping on her brother's Quidditch match. _Oh, yeah_! She'd been kicked out of the kitchen because the Order had called an emergency meeting. And she couldn't attend, of course, because she was so 'young and innocent.'

Codswallop!

* * *

Albus gracefully exited the fireplace, a brilliant smile alight his face, teeming with happinness. He hoarded a mass amount of cross scowls, seemingly affronted by his europhia.

He swiftly snagged his customary seat at the head of the table, noting that once more Severus was not present to an Order meeting—a fleeting disappointed frown blemishing his face. Of course, this time Severus's absence was—not by choice—but at Voldemort's behest; Harry Potter must have dealt Voldemort quite the injury.

"Got yourself a tart, have you?" This came from Sirius Black. Ah, the restless remaining half of the quartert of boys who had once—two decades ago—terrorized and ruled Hogwarts. Whilst his dozen year imprisonment had robbed them all of some of his boisterousness—the boy had retained his gift for repartee. And the trickster was simply seeking to bait Albus.

And on this occasion, Albus was keen to comply. Hundred and fifty years of living permitted a man—even one of _his_ status—to develop a lethal puckish sense of humor.

"Unfortunately, Sirius, that is not why I'm so happy. Alas, my wand remains un-polished—rather noticeably, too, I've been told." His eyes were twinkling, of that he had no doubt.

Sirius landed into a choking fit, Alastor's magical eye popped out onto the dining table, Remus's eyes stretched their sockets, Minerva was gaping at him like a fish (what he wouldn't do for a camera; Severus was regrettably absent), Nymphadora now rather resembled a red balloon, and the rest simply couldn't seem to command their mouths to shut.

Albus chuckled merrily. His eyes actually began to hurt from all the twinkling. "Now that we have all properly been awoken and rinsed out all our exuberuance..." He gave Sirius a pointed look. Sirius fidgeted in his seat, a small tinge to his cheeks; Remus began coughing—undoubtedly startled by a blushing Sirius. "... we can begin this meeting."

"Do hurry up, Dumbledore—I am exhausting my break for this," said Kingsley. Amelia, Arthur and Nymphadora nodded emphatically to that.

Albus sighed. "Alright then... Harry Potter—"

"I'm sorry, Albus—and I mean no disrespect to Potter—but why has an emergency meeting been called because of _him_?" asked Amelia in a sober tone.

"A few minutes more of patience and you would discovered this, Amelia," Albus replied, quite amused. "Last night, Lestrange Manor was attacked."

In a nutshell, the Order of Phoenix was left gob-smacked by this. Albus mentally cursed Voldemort for his requirement of Severus. And himself—for forgetting to bring along a camera. Thankfully, the Hogwarts founders had the foresight to create a magical instrument that could view memories. Thank Merlin for small miracles.

Kinglsey was the first to recover. A few more seconds, and it would have been St. Mung's for this lot—as far as Albus was concerned. "Successfully, Dumbledore?"

Albus nodded. "My sources report that Voldemort lost three members of his Inner Circle last night."

There was legitimate reason to reprimand the parents of the Order—because they slobbered over the dinner table in repulsive fashion. Molly would have a fit when she saw the table after the meeting. The Order would do well to exit Grimmauld Place swiftly after the meeting. Albus, most certainly, would.

Alastor grunted, admiration and approval shining in his eye. "And who were responsible, Albus?"

"Can you not guess?"

"Harry Potter..." breathed Remus, looking rather horrified.

"Yes," Albus responded. "But I have heard—"

"But he is much too young, Dumbledore," came Molly's protest.

Albus focused on her. "Belive me, Molly, I know..." he said, his voice heavy with sorrow. "I know, but I can not control him. He is of age, you know. Just like your two sons." He glanced at Fred and George Weasley, who were beaming brightly.

Molly scowled. "He is too young—"

"Listen, Molly," interrupted Sirius, an acrimonious edge to his voice, "Harry may be young, but I highly doubt he's thick. I think we need to have some trust in him. After all, we've all been so certain Voldemort was going to kill him but he's infiltrated Lestrange Manor and croaked three Death-Eaters. I reckon that deserves some respect considering that's more than the Order's done all summer."

Molly scowled, looking mighty reluctant. The wheels were obviously spinning in her head. She would not be convinced today. But the seeds had been sown and now all they could hope was that a healthy true blossommed into existence as a result.

"And injured Voldemort, you forgot to mention Sirius." The Order of Phoenix was deathly silent. "Have I not mentioned this?"

"Slipped your mind, no doubt," quipped Fleur in her thick French accent. She could express herself better now than three years ago, but her accent remained as heavy as ever. Perhaps, Bill Weasley—seated beside her—had been focused on other (undoubtedly, more pressing) issues...

Albus smiled. "No doubt. Severus's regrettable absence—"

There was a cough. "Regrettable...?"

"Yes, Sirius, regrettable. Had it not been for Severus, we would never become aware of yesterday's events."

"Where is Severus anyhow?" inquired Minerva, a concerned frown on her aged face. Poor Minerva...

Albus eyes hurt again. Merlin, he was getting too happy. Perhaps he should research this? A possible side-effect of old age...? This could be interesting. But first, Minerva would be delighted with a response, wouldn't she? "Voldemort's injuries were rather extensive and thus he required Severus's talented hands..." Minerva nodded, still frowning. Eh, no matter, she was _always_ frowning.

"Shouldn't we have just allowed the Tosser to rot." Alastor glanced about in pursuit of support.

There were some gasps of outrage, a few snickers, and one booming guffaw. Albus doubted he'd be reporting for slumber at his customary midnight. His pensieve would be seeing loads of action tonight— _that_ was guaranteed.

"As appealing as that notion is, it would be rather imprudent and pointless, I'm afraid, Alastor."

Sirius huffed and slumped back into his seat—looking agnostic. Remus gave his friend a brief glance to ascertain Sirius was alright, then focused back on Albus, looking uneasy. "Harry did this... on his own, did he?"

The Order whipped about to peruse Albus, awaiting his response, faint signs of curiousity etched across their faces.

"I'm glad you asked that, Remus. No, from what I garnered from my vague sources," had Severus been present, he'd have found himself beneath one of Albus's glares (but alas, Lady Luck wasn't in his corner), "Harry Potter was accompanied on his excursion by four others." The Order—like him—were intrigued far more by this revelation than Harry Potter singe-handedly defeating three Inner Circle members and Voldemort.

But Albus wasn't quite done dishing out fascinating revelations. "Another Death-Eater was rendered useless last night after the battle. I'm sure you all remember Mr. Grey."

"He died?!" demanded Amelia, her voice loudest amidst the eruption of jubilation. The rejoicing died down, thankfully—his ears probably couldn't survive any more of those than necessary.

Loads of "Good riddance," and "Hear, hear," floated in the air, a relish in them. Yes, Mr. Grey wasn't popular amognst the Order of Phoenix.

"No," Albus responded, a wry grin playing on his lips—and people called him barmy for believing that everyone deserved an opportunity to alter their live into a positive direction. The Order looked thoroughly displeased by this. "As it turns out, Mr. Grey," he chuckled at the anonym they'd dubbed a Death-Eater Voldemort himself allowed leniency hitherto unseen, "was a traitor. He is now being held captive in a remote, sequestered area outside of my admittedly extensive knowledge."

The Order contemplated his words in silence—eyes bulging and mouths agape. Sirius was the first to recover. "So, Snivellus remains unaware, then?"

Albus nodded, frowning at Sirius. "Severus, Sirius!" he corrected the blunder. "And yes, Voldemort leerily guards his secrets in his injury."

"Just like you, then..." muttered Sirius. Remus shot him a withering glare whilst the Order appeared non-plussed by his cheek—but Albus regarded him cheerfully, a firecracker erupting in his eye-sockets.

"I have my reasons, Sirius."

Sirius growled and sulkily slumped back into his seat—ignoring the Order's disapproving glances. "They all do..."

True, Albus conceded to himself. So very true. He would ruminate over this. Just not now. He sighed, dreading the night as it approached. His hectic schedule had just acquired a few more activities. How in Merlin's name was he to complete his assignments in time.

First and foremost, he needed something. Or, to be more precise, some crucial information. And there was only person in the Order who could possibly have the wherewithal to provide this. He focused on Mundungus, drawing his wand. A painful pang in his heart erupted—witnessing the fear in his brown eyes (how they widened) and the stutter on his crusty lips.

He sighed and fleetingly closed his eyes. "I mean not to harm you, Mundungus." He waved his wand, thinking of the curious symbol Severus had conjured in his office—hours ago.

A wisp of a green European Viper with a red head sprout out of his wand—two silver wands crossed against the serpent—hovering above the table. A gasp went through the congregation, but Albus didn't bother assuaging them. He studied Mundungus closely, searching for any sign of recognition.

Oh, there was recognition in those chocolate eyes, alright. Most definitely recognition.

"What does this symbol represent, Mundungus?"

Mundungus fidgeted, his hands shaking. His eye twitched. He glanced beside him where Fred and George sat. "That's Versace," he said, staring into Fred.

Albus wasn't the only left confounded by that. He blinked at Mundungus through a haze of confusion, propping his elbows onto the dinner table in a bid to appear intimidating. He'd spent _hours_ meditating over the connatation of that symbol. _Everything_ he'd learnt so far in regard to Harry Potter suggested that nothing—absolutely nothing—was done just because: why not? In Harry Potter's world—it wasn't done because of that, but it was certainly made to appear so to disguise the genuine intent (which was most likely clandestine).

"And what—precisely—is Versace, Mundungus?" The Order stared on, curious as well.

Mundungus looked nervous—yet delighted—to be in the limelight. It was an odd combination. He puffed out his chest in pride. "Is' the effin' Versace, innit? Criminal Organization..."

There was the faint sound of Remus's wand clattering to the ground. "My word!" Remus breathed, his face a portrait of horror, "Harry Potter... a common criminal..."

Sirius Black looked _proud...!_


	8. Bloody Brawls and Changing Tides

Consciousness introduced itself as a sticky pool of liquid, niggling at him. It tasted like iron and, perhaps incidentally, carried the unmistakable hue of metal.

Confusion prickled at him, fluttering his eyelids open.

And then he gasped in abject horror.

For he had been right in his assesment. Unfortunately, the revelation was rather far from pleasing.

Really, he scolded himself, he should have realized it himself. Sticky liquid that tasted like iron and smelled like metal.

Blood! He was sleeping in his own blood!

The epiphany seemed to finally penetrate his foggy brain and he suddenly felt the urge to heave. He tried to angle his head to the side in order to circumvent vomiting upon himself. But found such a feat beyond him.

Pain racked through him and a scream tore through his lips—blaring irritatingly loudly.

Unfortunately, it seemed mobility was beyond him. Fortunately, however, the pain did serve one good purpose—his urge to heave had abruptly ceased. For which Draco was glad for. How humilating it'd be should Voldemort discover him swimming in his very own blood _and_ vomit, to boot.

The thought was oddly invigorating and Draco began seeking means to discover his location.

In the end, he concluded that he was in a cellar—somewhere. Not Malfoy Manor. No, that cellar he was rather intimately aware of!

He deduced this by blatant bareness of the place—his echoing voice, lack of portraits on the disgustingly dull, bereft of colour walls (as far as he could make out, anyway). And above, handing an inviting hand, were skeletons that Draco was rather certain hadn't been conjured, but previously housed beating hearts and living souls.

That was his location confirmation: Lestrange Manor. Only those sick bastards could have a location so... sadistic.

Which, irritatingly, only dragged him closer to the real question: how the hell was he getting the hell out of here?

Normally, the answer would be rather simple. Dig in your pocket and retrieve your mirror. Shoutout or Whisper Versace Headquarters, brief them on your predicament and they should handle the rest.

He wanted to be doing that... except moving was one gigantic pain in the arse.

He sucked in deep breaths, psyching himself up for a cynical attempt. Whispering soothing half-truths to himself. _The pain would be worth it, and compared to Voldemort it'd feel like an orgasm..._

Somehow, he failed to be pacified.

He raised himself off the frigid, marble ground—his bottom lip within his teeth—and made to cock his neck behind him, staunchly ignoring the salty liquid trickling down his cheeks.

It was worth the hassle in the end, he thought as he slumped back against the floor, panting heavily—the effort had been expectantly knackering.

But at least he obtained his goal. He _was_ in a cellar. The steel gate entrance was a final, damning confirmation that did little to help the rumbling in his stomach.

Then came soft, thudding sounds of footfalls and Draco immediately began feigning sleep. The sound approached nigher and nigher. And then there was the clacking and creaking sound of the gate being opened.

And suddenly, a dark, oppressive aura tugged at his skin, his mind, his very soul. Voldemort...

A dark chuckle resounded in the dingy cellar. "A worthy attempt, I acknowledge, Draco Malfoy. But Lord Voldemort alwaysss knowsss. Alwaysss."

There was a rushing sound in his ear and pain suddenly developed there and his fear suddenly manifested itself, drizzling out beneath him and then he couldn't handle the suspense a second longer—and he blinked his gray eyes open, only to witness that damning red light speeding towards him, a relish in them, he supposed...

And he needed not to think—or did he? he wasn't quite sure—but he rolled out of it's path, and this time he really did trinkle all over the cellar. And pain did explode throughout his whole body and there was that sound again. Of helplessness and horror, loud like rustling leaves and then... Harry's eyes? No, the Killing Curse.

And then suddenly he was on his feet, and the curse had missed him by inches—no, millimeters; he'd fucking tasted and smelled death—and his wand was clasped in his hand and his heart wasn't within it's confines anymore for it was louder than Goyle's fucking snores...

And Voldemort's lipless, skeletal face suddenly erupted into sight and his vision blurred for a second—or was it an eternity?; he couldn't care less—and then suddenly the curse just ejaculated out of him, so natural, so pure, so intended...

And then there was fear—or was it confusion, or was it anger or had it been simple uncertainty?—and then there was fury etched across that pale, serpent-like, skeletal face as he took a step to the side and the green of the Killing Curse was sucked into the wall along with that tingly rush.

And then there was pleasure on Voldemort's face like he was getting sucked off or something.

Then, Draco thought not.

 _Crucio. Axelo. Baubilous. Cin Fu—_

Draco blinked in surprise, more than a bit startled to find himself on his stomach once more. He glanced up to find Voldemort staring down at him, his imperious countenance more than foreboding.

"Dueling in a compact area means you should always anticpate the possibilty of having to defend against your very own attack." Voldemort had never looked smugger.

A pebble slinked past his throat and landed in his stomach and something morphed within him. "Avada Kedavra." His aim was true and his hand trembled not. His voice was clear, no trace of the tremor that formerly accompied his attempts at that particular spell.

Voldemort sneered at him and serenely—dismissively—side-stepped the spell. The spell collided with the wall and then raced towards him, inviting, as if asking—no, demanding—an embrace.

And his stomach began bubbling and his heart began jumping in his chest, playing a frantic tattoo and his body stiffened and his eyes tailed the Killing Curse as it approached...

And then he could smell it. And then he was snogging a boulder.

Suddenly, lethargy attacked him and pain pierced him in areas he was confident were yet to be discovered by Healers. He made an earnest attempt to halt the progress of the scream that tore out of his mouth. But eventually he did falter in his endeavour and then he was screaming and Voldemort was laughing and then there was pain, so hot, excruciating and he could see the darkness, so inviting, so beautiful... so dark...

* * *

Blearily and tentatively, he blinked his eyes open, confirming his consciousness—pleasantly surprised to see his tenacity rewarded. He'd only been trying for... Merlin knew how long! Felt like fucking millenniums.

It was dark, he realized. Pitch-black. His eyes took their sweet time adjusting to the setting whilst Harry investigated the origins of the object in his grasp.

He traced his hand across—and then abruptly pulled back as a sharp jolt went through him.

His breathing accelerated, swift enough to cover a sprinting pace with relative ease—which, since Harry was certainly not sprinting, prickled Harry because it was rather fucking knackering.

And then suddenly he fell victim to a vicious assault on his mind, rendering him a spectator as memories rushed by, ungoverened.

There was no classic beauty about her—not really. Nothing that really ensnared someone at first glance. Especially not in her considerable discomfort. But under deeper inspection, her eyes stood out. Warmer than the sun, they shined brightly with unsuppressed emotion—at least, when they blinked open.

A man—or a snake-man. He couldn't be pure-man! There was something... unnatural about him. He—

A click sounded and then Harry was hissing as the rays of light battered his eyes, eventually simply opting to shield his eyes with the object in his grasp.

And then there was a shocked gasp—he could hardly be blamed for being curious—he opened his eyes and then, faster than perceivable, his eyes watered as pain raced to his head without permission and he needed to hurl.

Head to the side and then everything flew out his mouth and then he was wiping his mouth clean and then deep breaths, and then he fell as tears stained his cheeks and breathing became difficult...

It hadn't been a dream!

Infiltrating Lestrange Manor, dueling Death-Eaters, Voldemrt, their duel, spells colliding in mid-air, difficulty breathing, Voldemort's defeat, her... Figg's... death...

He buried his face within her bosom and sobbed... and sobbed... and sobbed. It was embarrasing and he did try to curb the tears but his efforts really just seemed to aggravate matters and before long, the bed was soaking wet and he was hardly better himself.

She didn't deserve it! As a squib, she was hardly threatening to Voldemort. As a kind, compassionate, passionate, brutally-honest, loving person, it was simply unjust that she had to go. Especially after all the effort he'd put into shielding her.

He'd known—oh, he'd known!—from the very beginning that the probability of Figg surviving Voldemort resembled a forbidding zero percent.

And thus, he'd employed several complicated defences intended to secrete Figg's presence from Voldemort and preferably, Dumbledore, as well.

Which just begged the question: how the fuck had Voldemort gotten to her?

His tears had dried up, leaving him sniffling in pathetic fashion every few seconds. He steeled himself and glanced down at Figg, drinking the image in.

She looked incredibly serene as she lay, her normally wrinkled face wrinkle-free, and her lips stretched in a content smile she'd saved especially for him.

Nothing he'd expect from a dead person. In fact, had he not personally witnessed her departure from the living, he'd have assumed Figg was laying in after a long night of baking.

Except her gown was soaked in dry blood, glaringly conspicious thanks in large to the gown's white hue. And, of course, that maddening smell of pastries had yet to assault his nose. Not that he'd ever complained—even during those long, lonely nights in Number Four.

His breathing stilled suddenly as his ears caught a whisp of... something. He strained his ears but still nothing. Just an inkling, a prickling inclination that he had company.

"Harry," said a familiar smooth and neutral voice, and he immadiately tensed, rather self-conscious about his current appearance. He finished dabbing at his eyes, just as auburn hair whipped into sight through the door.

Harry was rather grateful to see a compassionate glint in her golden eyes, and yet highly dismayed to witness himself under it. "Hey. How you doing this fine day?" He was mortified to hear his voice clearly broadcast his recent crying episode.

Blaise cringed, and opened her mouth—no doubt to tease him—but then snapped her mouth shut once more and contemplated her words. "Not too bad." She gave him a tentative smile that didn't even reach her cheeks. "Got my nails done." She presented her nails, her normally accompanying beaming superior smirk conspiciously absent.

Harry couldn't be bothered to conjure an insinscere felicitation and instead offered a half-hearted smile that he could perceive by the look on Blaise's face had come off as nothing better than a revolted grimace.

Blaise's eyes drifted towards Figg's corpse and Harry—chickened at the prospect of burning another haunting image into his mind—stared stonily into Blaise's face, holding her gaze when she'd concluded surveying Figg. "I'm sorry." She shrugged helplessly at Harry, perhaps understanding that her words, despite the best intentions behind them, could hardly do anything to mend the wound he'd suffered.

"We snuffed out a couple of Death-Eaters," Blaise said to break the tense silence, sounding rather hopeful like the news was somehow suppose to pacify his loss. Like the lives of a couple of scumbags could even be mentioned in the same encyclopedia as an exceptional person such as Figg!

The same thought seemed to pinch Blaise at that moment and something resembling regret flashed by so swiftly Harry dismissed it as his imagination. She stared him down, seemingly sizing him up for something. And Harry's jaw tightened in anger that he even had to endure a test.

"Tell me everything, Blaise," he demanded.

Blaise gave him a worried, concerned frown. "Everything, Harry? Now? Harry, I don't think this is—"

"Blaise," Harry growled.

Blaise sighed, giving him a pitying look that Harry simply abhorred. Her eyes trailed over to Figg's lifeless form. "Follow me," she commanded, scurrying out of the room, evidently bothered by the image of Figg—dead. Harry dashed out after her, relieved and ecstatic to escape the room and image that would undoubtedly harrow him for the remainder of his—hopefully—glorious life.

Harry doggedly disregarded Figg's bedroom, desperately absolved the family poster plastered against Draco's door, and stormed down the staircase, hot on Blaise's tail.

They burst through the doorway and snagged seats at the dining table, opposite each other. Harry attacked the water on the table viciously, retrieving his wand for a re-fill when it began approaching an untimely demise but Blaise fixed him an austere glare. "I'm not explaining the magic residue to the Obliviators and the Ministry. Are you?"

Harry returned her glare with one of his ferocious level but reluctantly stashed his wand back in his pockets. Which reminded him... He dug within his boots, hoping, praying, and yes... There they were! He didn't know _how_ —didn't really care either way—his parent's wands somehow remained with him. But they had—and for that Harry was grateful.

"How?" Blaise breathed in disbelief, her eyes as wide as snitches.

"Magic." Harry accompanied his words with a wicked smirk, hardly dampered when Blaise rolled her eyes, obviously dissatisfied by his flimsy reply. Harry couldn't be arsed.

"So..." he prompted.

Blaise grimaced. "So..." she began. Harry gave her an imploring nod. Then came a tense silence and an intense battle of wills as they stared each other down. Thankfully, Harry came out on top just as he was considering yielding.

"What d'you want to know?"

"What happened after I apparated outta Lestrange Manor!"

* * *

"Harry!" Blaise called from the doorway.

Harry ignored her.

He pulled his dagger out of the sandbag and thrust back in with the dagger in his left hand. He sighed and pulled the dagger out, thrusting in with the dagger in his right hand.

He watched, entranced as the sand poured out of the punctures his daggers had made.

His breathing sped up. He felt a weight abandon him.

He thrust back in. Pulled out. And then with the dagger in his other hand, thrust back in. He repeated the ritual. Again. And again. And again.

"Harry!" he heard Blaise scream, looking feral.

"What! What d'you want?" He gripped his daggers and threw them at Blaise, whose breath had hitched as the blades flew towards her, looking at Harry with wide eyes.

"What—"

Harry palmed his face. "Sorry. I didn't mean—"

"Sorry?!" exclaimed Blaise. Harry winced. He probably did deserve that. Had Blaise attacked him, he'd go ballistic, for sure.

Her face softened and a look of compassion flashed by, and Harry felt his jaw tighten. She leaned against the door. "Look, I realize this is hardly a desirable situation. Draco was captured. We only got a few Death-Eaters. We aren't without casualties. And even worst, Figg snuffed it." Harry's eyes flashed; Blaise stared him on.

"She wouldn't want this for you, Harry." Harry sneered. What would she know?

"She'd want you to be happy."

Harry chuckled, but there was no humor in it. "Just how can I be happy?" he whispered. "How?"

That shut Blaise up. He saw her thinking process slow down, and she was forced to actually contemplate that. How could a boy who'd just lost his mother be happy?

"Avenge her," she answered, holding his eyes. She looked determined and fierce. "Avenge your mothers, Harry. They deserve it."

Harry was silent after that, thinking the words through. He found just one problem with that. "How?"

Blaise sighed, she neatly pushed her hair behind her ear. "We need Draco, Harry—"

Harry nodded vehemently, starting to feel rejevnuated, alive. The first time since—since, well, Figg's passing. "Right. So, infiltrate Lestrange Manor again then?"

Blaise thought it over. "No," Harry cocked a brow. "No, you go to Italy—"

"Italy?!" Harry was outraged.

He tried to protest but Blaise went off. " _I_ will heading over to Lestrange Manor—"

"Alone?!" Blaise was good, Harry could testify first-hand but even she couldn't simply burst into Lestrange Manor, without help, and expect not to get her arse handed to her.

Blaise gave him her trademark twisted smirk. "Aw, concerned of my well-being, are we?" Harry scowled.

Blaise chuckled. "Don't worry. I'll track Andrew, Liza, Emily, the whole gang if only to appease you." She sounded sarcastic.

She laughed at Harry's confusion. "I'm not infiltrating Lestrange Manor, Harry. I'll be going there as a guest."

"A guest?" Harry repeated dubiously. "Who, in their right mind, would invite you over for dinner?" Harry snickered at his very own jest.

Blaise curled her lips, evidently not sharing in his amusement. "Nobody. But you see, I'm not going for tea." Harry raised a brow.

" _I_ am being recruited."

 **Reviews always welcome!**


	9. Revelations and Reprecussions

Draco Malfoy couldn't circumvent the truth anymore. He was nervous!

He hadn't had any human contact for quite a while now—he didn't know exactly how long; he'd lost track of time, unfortunately.

Voldypants had been kind enough to provide him with medical assistance. His injuries had been quite extensive, Draco gathered by the duration the healer spent in his presence.

The healer had fixed him up rather nicely. He'd engaged her in pleasant pleasantries and flirted just a bit, and she had reciprocated. She'd made sure to confiscate his wand, though. Smart woman, that Greengrass character.

She never came back, however—after healing him. Nobody did.

He paced in his cellar, like he had taken to doing over the past few days. His stomach growled and he glared down at it. He was hardly in a situation where he could quench his hunger.

Frustrated, he whipped out his wand and conjured a chair and sunk into it.

He found himself wondering what the fuck was happening outside the cellar. Lestrange Manor was still being employed as His Headquarters, Draco figured, for he had overheard snatches of conversations that suggested so, and moreover, Draco regularly had footfalls pound his ears.

Outside Lestrange Manor, however, Draco was clueless on happenings. And that was quite the irritating situation. He gritted his teeth and stormed to his feet and then resumed pacing.

Harry was fine, he reminded himself. Everyone had made it out—alive. Blaise's Whisper had said so. But he failed to be placated.

His family. His blood family. He wondered what his father and mother had to endure now that his betrayal was under the sun. Had Voldemort offed them? Had they suffered before their death? Been tortured?

He stilled as footfalls flirted past his ear. He strained his ears, listening intently. This was how he'd stayed largely informed of happenings. He hadn't been told Voldemort had needed medical assistance. He hadn't been told Voldemort had lost a few minor Death-Eaters in his towering rage, either.

The footfalls became louder and louder, and Draco began suspecting that he was the destination. His inkling was proven correct when Rodolphus Lestrange materialised in his cellar, a virulent smile playing on his lips.

"Draco Malfoy," he pronounced. The name echoed in the cellar.

Draco regretted having to witness the man's dental hygiene. He strained a smile. "Roddy. How you been?" Draco figured a light-hearted Rodolphus was better for his life-expectancy than an enraged one.

Rodolphus didn't seem aboard with the plan. Draco couldn't blame the prick, really. He hadn't exactly received hospital reception from Draco. For which he figured himself blameless from; just who would have actually predicted—just a month ago—that Draco would actually need Rodolphus Lestrange.

Rodolphus gave him a flinty stare. "I ought to teach you a lesson, boy."

Draco chuckled. "But you won't, Roddy."

Rodolphus stormed towards him, jaw clenched and his eyes glazed over in his ire. Draco backed up until he found himself against the wall, his robes within Rodolphus's grip and his face inches from his face.

"Wanna test me, boy?" Rodolphus flashed his wand in his face, brandishing it threateningly.

Draco chuckled; not an easy task considering the adour that had just passed him by. "And I suppose that's why the Dark Lord sent you down, is it? Because He wanted 'the Traitor'," Draco enjoyed the manner in which Rodolphus's eyes squinted in his suspicion and anger as to how Draco knew of his nickname, "to die by your hands? I think not, Rodolphus. Now, let me go and bring me to the Dark Lord otherwise you'll soon be joining me in Hell. I know it, you know it, He knows it."

Rodolphus scowled and released him roughly. Draco smirked. It was always good fun, playing with Death-Eaters. It was almost like with Slytherins, just more dangerous and fatal. The ardenaline rush was rather heady.

"Your wand," Rodolphus demanded, his arms outstretched as he pointed his wand at Draco.

Draco took a moment—contemplating the offer.

He was more skilled than Rodolphus. Rodolphus knew that; he could see the fear loitering in the man's dark eyes. Voldemort knew it. Which meant that the possibilty that Draco would overpower Rodolphus and undertake a bust-out Gryffindor-esque mission would have been covered. Draco was now certain there were Death-Eaters lurking outside the cellar. He'd heard more than two footfalls. In conclusion, Draco wasn't going to be escaping Lestrange Manor by subduing Rodolphus.

Draco handed Rodolphus his wand, smirking. "Well played." Rodolphus was still scowling.

"In front of me," he commanded. "Walk! Now!" Draco rolled his eyes and heeded his words, making sure to drag his legs along; he just needed one mistake, and he could pounce. And that mistake would probably stem from anger.

Out of the cellar, they proceeded, into a dark corridor, quite the queer group—Draco dragging his feet, trying to keep the atmosphere light and Rodolphus gunning him down behind him, his wand on Draco's back.

He was right in his assumption, Draco discovered, for waiting on the first stairway were Bellatrix Lestrange, Rabastan Lestrange, Bartemious Crouch Jr. and Dolohov—all of them holding their wands. More than worthy opposition.

Draco gave Bartemious a smirk. "Hey, Barty, how's life?" Rodolphus gave him a nudge in the back and Draco was forced to begin climbing up the glass stairs, Bartemious and Dolohov flanking him, looking rather intimidating, he would admit.

"Barty?" Draco prompted.

Bartemious sneered at him. "Life's been good, thanks for inquiring, Malfoy. Unlike you, I have not foolishly become estranged with the Dark Lord." Bartemoius held his eyes. "You'll pay for your insolence, boy. I simply pity your father."

Draco kept his mouth shut, trepidation prickling him as they proceeded into the drawing room.

A crystal candelier hung from the ceiling, portraits of now dead Lestranges lining the silver and emerald walls. And sitting before an ornate marbe fireplace was Voldemort, himself, in a large sable chair—a dark smile playing on the edge of his lips.

Voldemort rose to his feet, and raised a goblet at Draco in toast. He then nodded at his servants surrounding Draco. "Well done. No complications, I trust."

Rodolphus stepped forward from behind Draco, who cocked a brow at this. "None at all, my lord. He was..." he gave a nasty smirk, "cooperative."

"Was he, now?" Voldemort stared him down and Draco made sure not to flinch; he couldn't afford for his anxiety to be detected. "Your desire to live finally makes an appearance." Voldemort sneered. "It might already be too late."

The knowledge was rather disconcerting and Draco made sure to force a serene smile. "You don't say..."

Voldemort stared him down, and Draco refused to back down lest it be regarded as fear—it was no piece of tart, however, what with those dark scarlet eyes. Eventually, Voldemort chuckled and glanced at Rodolphus. "Leave us." His tone didn't bode well for arguments.

Rodolphus displayed some of his Slytherin and immediately complied with Voldemort's wishes. "Of course, my Lord." And then he was out, the rest followed him; even Bellatrix only gave Voldemort a puzzled glance on her way out.

The ornate silver door rang loudly at their exit. Draco gulped. With Rodolphus gone, so was his wand and any hope of an escape. And Voldemort's creepy smile hardly helped his jitters.

Voldemort dropped his goblet and it wrecked the silence with a forbidding shatter. Draco flinched. Voldemort didn't even smirk.

"Draco Malfoy." His name echoed.

"Indeed."

Voldemort's footfall resounded as he took a step to the left. And then the right. He was pacing, yet appeared tranquil. "'The Traitor,'" he breathed, seeking Draco's eye.

Draco complied, his heart rate spiking. "I hear that's what they call me these days."

Voldemort ground to a stop. "You continue to live, Draco Malfoy, simply because I allow it. You—"

"You allow it simply because I intrigue you." It was a bluff. A dangerous bluff. Based upon an educational guess, but Voldemort had proven over the summer that he was most nothing if unpredicatble. However, Voldemort had no qualms with torturing people who challenged him, even and often, specifically, because it was a reasonable challenge—he'd witnessed this rather regularly over the summer.

Voldemort chuckled, flashing him his hideous teeth. "Is that ehat you think, Draco Malfoy?" He'd stopped moving; still, watching, observing. Almost like a snake waiting to strike.

Draco shugged, making sure not to display his perturb. "It matters not what I believe; it matters simply what _you_ believe."

Voldemort had his infamous blank countenance on. "Why, I must confess myself to have been intrigued by you when I hand-picked you to join my ranks this summer. Your talent appealed to me, you see. I would like to evaluate my decision." Voldemort smirked and went back into his chair, blatantly ignoring Draco's raised eye-brow.

The silence was defeaning and Draco could hear his heart pounding against his chest.

The fireplace flared green and gurgled a girl out, who landed graciously, her auburn hair reaching her shoulders, wearing a sardonic smile, her wand in her palm, evidently expecting a fight. She wore a curious golden necklace and muggle clothing—elicting a raised brow from Draco

Blaise _detested_ muggle clothing!

Voldemort chuckled. "You recognize her, I trust."

Draco shrugged. "So I do. What of it? She's a classmate, you'll find!"

"She seeks recruitment, you see."

Draco forced a smile. "Is that so?" That was news to him. Was Blaise betraying _Versace_ , and furthermore, _Harry_? Or was this simply the story that had been designed in order to get Blaise into Lestrange Manor? But no, Harry—knowing him!—would demand he led such a mission himself!

What the bloody fuck was going on here?! he wondered. He hoped his disconcertion couldn't be glimpsed through his eyes. Harry always claimed that was a skill Draco'd always possessed. Draco bloody well hoped so.

Draco allowed his eyes to skim over Blaise, and then trailed back to Voldemort. "How does this concern me? I'm afraid I don't quite follow."

Voldemort flashed him teeth once more. "I wouldn't expect you to." In a flash, Voldemort had his wand in his grasp, and Draco felt his stomach jerk wildly as he tensed in anticipation.

He needn't have worried for Voldemort simply waved his wand. A blonde-haired couple materialized before Draco, staring at him with wide, gaunt eyes; tethered under Incacerous. Father hadn't bathed for days, Draco suspected. His hair had lost his gel and a shadow of a beard was beginning to creep into existence across his jaw. He'd lost weight, as well. Mother—although rather frightened, he was sure—wore her trademark haughty look despite her dishevelled appearance, her shining love for him laundered down ruthlessly.

Draco felt a pang in his heart. "Are you alright?" His voice felt raspy and came out all scratchy. He winced. Had this been a normal setting and he'd uttered such a sound, he'd receive oral lessons for a month—minimum.

Father gave a stiff, detached nod and Draco barely managed to restrain a cringe. Father's coldness was rather expected considering such a situation would never have arisen had their son never betrayed Voldemort. Mother had clipped her lips together, evidently displeased with Father.

Draco glanced back at Voldemort, feeling his sultry gaze upon him; patiently watching him, taking note of every move, intensely anticipating a reaction. That Draco made certain not to provide.

Voldemort chuckled. "Admirable, Draco. It remains to be seen, however, if your resiliance shall last." Draco cocked a brow. He was rather lost.

"Miss Zabini, if you please."

Blaise gave a chilling smile. "But of course, my Lord. _Avada Kedavra. Avada Kedavra."_

* * *

"Hey, Gin-Gin?" It was Fred and George.

"Can we talk?" George shut the door behind him and the two proceeded to barge upon her privacy.

Ginny crossed her arms across her chest. "I don't have a fucking choice, do I?"

Fred smiled oddly; more like a Slytherin than anything else. "Not really, no."

"Take a seat." George pointed at her bed.

Ginny scowled. "You can't come into my bedroom and bloody begin to fucking order me around. It's my—"

"Sit down, Ginny." Fred was brandishing his wand, wearing a tight-lipped frown. Ginny swallowed; she could handle herself remarkably well—it was a by-product of being a lone family member of a blood-traitor family in Slytherin for the past five years—but she wasn't so daft to believe she could miraclously best the twins in a duel.

"Fine! Have it your way!" Ginny sunk into her bed.

The twins waved their wands and immediately, wooden chairs appeared. They turned it around, and in tandem, sank into them. Ginny growled. "What d'you two want? Get yourself in trouble with Mum again, didn't you? Well, you can stick it up—"

"Harry Potter." Ginny raised a brow at Fred, who mirrored her.

"Ring a bell?"

Ginny licked her lips. She remembered their brief meeting. And her promise. "Yeah. So what?" She untangled her arms; it wouldn't do to appear tense.

The twins shared a glance. Fred sighed. "Listen, Gin—"

"Ginny," she gritted out.

George chuckled. "Word has it—"

"You let _some_ people call you Gin."

"But not your brothers, obviously."

Ginny scowled. The twins were having too great of a kick out of this. "Don't you have somewhere else to be? Work, for example."

The twins shared glanced at each other again, using their fucking telepathic shite once more or whatever the fuck it was. Ginny really couldn't give a rat's arse what it was.

"Kinda, yeah," Fred said.

"Which is why we'd appreciate it—"

"If you told us how—"

"You! Of all bloody people."

"Know Harry Potter."

Ginny bit her lip, considering her options. She could go the honest route. But she wasn't exactly certain Harry'd be pleased with that. He hadn't been overjoyed when Ginny had had discovered his identity. She didn't imagine he'd be any more delighted with the twins' discovering his identity.

"Just what makes you think I know Harry Potter anyway?" She smoothed her hair down and gave a false smile. "Personally, I mean, I still remember those stories Mum told me as a kid but I don't actually know Harry Potter."

The twins glanced at each other and Ginny bared her teeth. Fred sighed whilst George shook his head—in disappointment. Ginny blinked rapidly as Fred dug within his magneta robes and produced a parchment with a rather stellar hole in it.

"'Dear twins," Ginny smiled bemusedly as Fred began reading. "How's life? Dumbledore still pissed at me? I'm in a bit of a sticky situation here. Figg kicked the bucket as you may or may not be aware. You're gonna be hearing naught from me for a while. But plenty ABOUT me. Don't write."

Ginny chuckled. "Well, this bloke seems cheery. He's alright, I suppose. Who is he?"

Fred gave a hard smile. "Don't know? Why don't we just agree it was Merlin and call it a day!" Ginny cocked a brow. Fred exploding was a rather rare sight.

George snatched the letter from his brother. He cleared his throat. "P.S—Grimmauld Place was alright. By the way, say thanks to the red-head for me, won't you? Wink, wink. I told you I played Seeker. Yes, we did You-Know-What."

Ginny blushed under their combined stares. "Care to explain?"

"Well..." Ginny muttered, eyeing the door. She rubbed her clammy palms on her trousers, willing an exit to somehow materialise before her.

"Yes?" Fred prompted.

"I... so... yes, I know Harry Potter." She rubbed at the back of her neck, avoiding her brother's seeking eye.

"A bit more than just acquaintinces, I reckon." The twins gave her an accusatory gaze.

Ginny looked away. "Why so quiet, Ginny? Something wrong?"

Her scalp prickled, and she lifted her chin. "Nothing. Nothing—"

"Ginny!" Fred interrupted sharply. George was massaging his temples.

She sighed dejectedly, her shoulders slumped. "Alright. I... I... I was just curious..." She cleared her throat. And then again. "He... _asked_... me to help him. How could I ref—"

"Slow down," Fred suggested, hunched over. "Breathe, Ginny. It's alright."

Ginny took in a breath. "He said he needed help. Someone to help him spy on the Order."

* * *

His lips parted and his sockets strained, ligtheadeadness washed over him.

 _It couldn't be!_

He stilled, slowly devouring breath after another—and thankfully, his stomach finally softened.

He shook his head vehemently.

 _No! No! No, no, no!_

It was a gimmick, an artifice; knotty, wily strategem—thought up to to rattle Voldemort. Win Voldemort's trust.

Yes! Yes, that was it! That was all it was! A clever, detailed sleight designed to delude Voldemort into a sense of security. Stroke his ego. Just how the cunt liked it!

 _Yes!_

He threw his head back and surrendered himself to the laughter. It rammed past his throat, slinked out his ajar lips; reverberated, echoed, loudly.

They weren't dead! They couldn't be!

But they weren't moving!

He shook his head slowly, ruthlessly swallowing the lump in her throat, clenching and unclenching his fists, savouring the pain from his lips, which he was biting.

He held her eyes, those striking hazel eyes, jaw clenched, trying to understand _why_!

He'd recruited her— _himself_! Suggested her to Harry! Vouched for her when there'd been complications and distrust had began to brew. And _this_ was how she decided to repay him.

She didn't even look remorseful. There was no regret in her eyes, nor did her expression even hint at that particular emotion.

"Get off on that sorta thing, do you?" Draco gave a dark chuckle. "Betraying people?"

Blaise's lips had tightened and Draco felt amusement spike him in the sides.

"Finish it, Zabini." Draco made certain not to glance at Voldemort, his eyes still on Blaise, almost daring her to proceed with the deed.

Her eyes had hardened and her hands were trembling, her wand shaking within her grasp. Her neck bobbled as she swallowed down her nerves and spite, a few breaths inhaled following after.

"Zabini!"

Blaise released a breath, and gave a smile.

Draco still hadn't moved, reviewing every single meeting with Blaise. He snorted, remembering the Slytherin slogan. Together, we conquer; seperated, we fall.

A swish sounded and suddenly, there was something flying through the air, and Draco could hear his breath, his heart roaring, ironically determined to remain alive now that death was seeking an embrace.

He gasped, rather involuntarily as lightheadedness clouded over him and his stomach compressed, his mouth wet all of a sudden—with blood. He glanced down at his chest, only to be rewarded with the sight of blood. His stomach gave a painful clench.

"Avada Kedavra."

Draco gulped, trembling on the spot, grounded as memories rammed through him. He remembered that day—nine years ago. When he'd met Harry Potter.

He closed his eyes, pushing a smile onto his face—figuring it'd be a good way to irk Voldemort. Even in death! He chuckled.

Suddenly, a tremor wracked through him and his smile froze. His muscles tensed and he could feel his breath leave him. It was an odd sensation. He forced his mouth open, hoping for a breath—but still nothing.

He felt his insides cool, and he sucked in a desperate gulp of breath. Bloody hell! What happened to death doesn't hurt? And Slytherins was absolutely head over heels in love with a muggle. He snorted.

A tug clicked in his navel, and he froze, hands clenched, eyes closed, smile stubbornly intact, accepting of death.

Nausea wased over him and yet he refused to pry his eyes open.

Finally, the curiousity became too much and he peeked. And then frowned.

He'd expected grander when he imagined the afterlife.

In fact, this looked rather suspiciously like Versace DHQ.

"Draco?"


	10. Bad News and Tough Choices

Harry tried to help it—he really did!—but in the end, he fell to the temptation and simply smashed his fist into the the wall.

Pain jolted up his knuckles and he gritted his teeth, his eyes watering slightly.

Just how was it his fault?! He run a frustrated hand through his hair.

He'd done everything—every-fucking-thing under the skies for Merlin's sake—but in the end, it hardly mattered.

Harry hung his head. Perhaps, Gellert was right. Perhaps, a traitor lurked in their midst. It was the only explanation. He nodded grimly to himself, a bitter smile on his lips.

Just who was it, though?

Could it be Andrew? A werewolf he'd been friends with for half a decade. Trusted. Fed. Fooled around with.

Or Liza? A vengeful, abandoned pureblood—mistaken to be a squib—had she joined Voldemort, viewing it, perhaps, as her destiny, and her rightful place.

Blaise, perhaps? The sneaky Slytherin introduced by Draco just last year. He barely knew anything about her—but he did like her.

Emily? Enraged squib, and a werewolf to boot that swore vengeance. Had Voldemort somehow become privy to that hate, festered it just a tad, offered her a place amongst his minions. Perhaps betrayed Versace as a sign of her allegiance to Voldemort.

Perhaps...

Harry gave a roar, and drove his fist once more into the wall.

It could be a host of people! Draco. Andrew. Liza. Emily. Blaise. There didn't necessarily have to be a traitor for fuck's sake! It was all fucking speculation.

A screech sounded and Harry stilled. He rushed to the window, making sure to stay underneath—just in case this was a rival, armed with firearms.

The person—who-ever-the-fuck it was; and it could be a hoard of people—was driving a BMW Z3 2.8. Harry cursed under his breath. Car was nothing to sneeze at. He'd definitely be needing his Firebolt to give him a chance of escaping alive. Of course, in the worst case scenario he'd just apparate away. Unless this was a wizard or a witch. In which case, he was probably royally fucked.

The person had parked the car—rather nicely, Harry noticed—beside his lawn. He perked his eyes, waiting to see who it was. Jason, perhaps? He'd definitely done enough to risk the ire of his gang. Retribution?

Turns out, it was just Emily—probably giving someone the slip if her dangerous speed was anything to assess by.

Her disheveled appearance and her worried frown, warily glancing around coaxed Harry out of the house, running. "What happened?"

Emily shook her head, her pure black hair flailing about in the wind. "Is Draco here?" She pat her hair down in an irritated manner.

"Draco?!" Harry repeated, frowning. "No, why?"

Emily palmed her face, taking in a few breaths. "I screwed up, Harry..."

Harry felt his heart rate gather speed and his temperature mount and he was rather glad he was wearing gloves—that way, his clammy hands couldn't be detected.

Emily swayed precariously and Harry steadied her. He glanced around only to find the beady eyes of neighbours trained upon. He gave a strained smile, waved around and heaved Emily inside. He shut the door behind him.

They were probably going to have to move their OIF house again. Bloody third time this fucking year. Gellert would be chaffed. He was already mighty _pleased_ with Harry.

Once Harry had Emily steadied on the sofa, given her a glass of water, and she'd regained her bearings, Harry began, "So what happened?"

Emily glanced up at him with wide, fearful eyes. "I... It's a long story."

Harry gave a comforting smile. "I have one, as well. Trade stories?"

"Sure," Emily breathed, looking relieved.

So, Harry slowly began the tale of his adventure in Italy.

 _It was a balmy day!_

 _The wind whistled by, nudging the dirt along gently as people dashed by, all dressed very lightly, beaming brightly in the sunshine._

 _A reasonably tall lad happened to be in the mix, but headed not, like the others before him to the lake that seemed to have attracted a sizeable portion of Milan; he drifted off just before the curve that took one to Lake Idroscalo and instead paddled past an artificial pond and continued heading down._

 _There weren't any houses here!_

 _Just trees, and predictably, lots of wind. The boy stuck on the clearing between the trees, a confident trudge on him, despite the lack of noise and the distant cries of birds._

 _Animals of all different kinds emitted noises of all different kinds. Squirrels chattered their teeth, birds whistled in the bright afternoon, and the boy didn't so much as spare nature's exhibition so much as a glance._

 _In fact, he seemed to be in a hurry now. Formerly, loose and exhibiting a casual gait, he'd picked up the pace and there was a stiff structure to his spine._

 _The clearing had changed as well. Become smaller. The trees bared into the boy, imposing upon him. It was silent, as well, except for infrequent chirps._

 _And for the first time, the boy did something other than simply walk. He run a hand through his mop of hair as he ground to a stop. He whirled about, wariness glinting in his eye as he quietly surveyed the terrain._

 _He waited._

 _And waited._

 _Until finally he turned around once more with wands in each palm, very still. As if listening, looking, feeling..._

 _He drew quite the circle with his wands and a golden light flashed up, mirroring his actions. And then promptly dissipated._

 _The boy grunted, unimpressed. And tried again with the same results._

 _A frustrated breath and a restrained growl followed._

 _The boy palmed the wands into just one and washed his face with his free palm. "Alright, Harry, think a little, won't you?" he grit out._

 _He blew out a breath and messed his hair up a little, with little notable difference thereafter._

 _He stilled suddenly. Then slumped. And then perked up once more into a shrug._

 _Both wands took up a palm and he drew up a lopsided... V._

 _It stayed up in the air, smoke coming off it. Until, suddenly it was gone._

 _Something cackled. Loud._

 _And the ground shook before the boy who took some wary steps back, holding his wands before him, perhaps expecting a confrontation._

 _He didn't get a confrontation, but something equally surprising transpired. A house rose out of the clearing before the boy, looking sturdily built with bricks, painted green and red and that very same lopsided V plastered against it at intervals._

 _The sun glistened upon it, making it pop in the afternoon, and suddenly, the birds were chirping, there was whistling, and... was that singing...?_

 _The boy didn't seem at all impressed if his growl was anything to go by._

 _And when a clank sounded as an entrance suddenly popped into appearance, and a female robotic voice sounded after it, "Welcome to Versace Headquarters!" the boy just sneered and swaggered in._

 _The steel door rang shut once the boy stepped in, and in the darkness that enveloped him, the boy drank in an irritated breath._

 _The boy then violently flinched as the robotic voice echoed around him, "Please state your name, and purpose."_

 _The boy grit his teeth together. "Here to request something."_

 _There was a moment of silence as the machine presumably reviewed the boy's response. "Name, please."_

 _The boy smirked. "The Silver Boy!"_

 _Something freed itself from it's confinement and a resulting clank echoed and the lights suddenly blared on, bringing with it three tall men, all bald, all holding wands, and all wearing black from head to toe._

 _And all of them immediately roared, "Avada Kedavra!"_

 _The boy hardly looked impressed as three green beams burst out of the wands and missed him. By quite a distance. The three of the boy's assailants glanced at each other questioningly. For one of them, it'd be his last action for quite awhile because a second later, he was howling in pain on the ground, a wide gash across his hip spewing blood._

 _The others warily glanced back up into the face of the boy. And it was their very last action, as well._

 _The boy took in a deep breath at the sight of the fallen men._

" _Gellert!" he roared._

 _No response._

 _He repeated his actions and once more, nothing._

 _And once more he shouted, but this time the lights went off. And a voice, croaky but unmistakably male echoed, "Welcome... Silver Boy. To what do I owe this pleasure?"_

 _The boy gulped at that and for the first time looked... panicked._

 _He glanced about hurriedly, and seemed to draw confidence from the bodies littering the marble floor and squared his shoulders. "I need approval, Gellert. I'm goi_ —"

" _For what?" And now there was curiosity in the voice._

 _The boy scowled, his hands tightening around the wands. "She's dead, Gellert. He killed her... and I couldn't do anything. I was right there, just watching_ —"

" _Who?" And now that, it was clearly desperation._

 _The boy run a hand through his hair and sniffled. This was obviously very hard, emotionally, for him. "I'm gonna kill Him, Gellert. With or without your permission, he'll be dead by my hand. I wi_ — _"_

" _Harry! Harry! Was it Figg? Is Figg dead?"_

" _Yes..." he whispered softly, nodding and he swallowed quite the ball._

 _There was silence._

 _And more silence._

" _Kill him! And bring His body to me!"_

Harry glanced up into Emily's face, slowly, curious, wanting—no, needing—to know just what she thought about all this. Gleam her expression, just to garner her reaction, assess just how he should be feeling... if perhaps he had pushed a tad far, achieved a bit too much, dabbled in too much.

Emily, though, she looked curious.

"He gave you blessing?!"

Harry chuckled. "Well, not quite officially but that's understandable considering he just found out Figg was dead and all, you—"

"We won't be fined for killing 'em, though, will we? Or penalized in any manner?"

Harry run a hand through his hair and smirked. "I should think not."

Emily nodded and slumped back into the sofa, looking rather relieved. She wiped a bead of sweat from forehead. "Good," she said while nodding to herself, "that's good. Cuz after what happened at Lestrange Manor and DHQ, I don't think there is any other option but war against the Dark Lord."

Boy, didn't Emily look forlorn, Harry thought as he ran a hand through his messy hair.

* * *

"So, what I'm hearing is Draco's parents are dead?!"

Emily looked incredulous. "That's all you got outta all of that?" She turned to face Harry, baring into him.

Harry shrugged. "Well, no actually... there's also the little snag of you somehow losing Draco even though he was injured 'very badly'."

Emily snarled. And Harry rolled his eyes. "I mean, I get it. Blaise had no choice. Blablabla. Bad luck. What would you have me do?"

Emily sighed. "So... so what? You're not pissed or... or mad or—"

"Oh, I'm pissed. I'm fucking pissed, Emily!" Harry glanced into Emily's face, and his stomach tingled just a bit as he saw how her eyes widened, how she sharply drew back.

"Where are the rest?" he asked harshly, his voice a bit rough as he struggled to calm himself down.

She was breathing hard now. "The rest?"

Harry gritted his teeth. "Andrew, Liza, Theo..."

"Oh!" She gulped and Harry growled. "They're... DHQ, I think."

"They're _not_ looking for Draco?!" Harry felt he did quite a good job on keeping his anger in check.

"They're doing all they can!"

And the really annoying thing was she was telling the truth. At least as far as Harry could tell. He wanted to rage at her. Call her a liar. A traitor. But somehow he couldn't quite get that energy up, that rage and violence; especially since he was keeping things from her, as well.

So he just nodded. "Fine." He rose to his feet. "I'll find him myself."

At that moment, a soft pop sounded and Draco Malfoy materialized before them. And Emily gasped. Harry couldn't help but grimace.

Draco had something sticking out of his chest. A knife... or a dagger maybe? Harry stepped forward to get a better look, see it from a close, less acute angle, determine just what it was... and how best to proceed.

But then Draco began gasping as he swayed on his feet, and then he was roaring and his eyes began spinning in their sockets, and he was playing the part of a mad, feral beast quite well and Harry couldn't help but wonder if the full moon was here and Draco had somehow gotten bitten.

And now, Emily was shrieking below Draco, who had managed to pull her off the sofa and—seemingly forgetting he was a wizard—had a rather firm grip on her hair.

Harry sighed to himself, glancing up. Wasn't this just lovely! They were going to have to find another residence as DHQ. Hopefully—if he managed to restrain himself from using magic which looked increasingly more doubtful and as if to prove his point, Emily decided to give the dagger in Draco's heart a good little kick; you know, wedge it in a bit deeper so that he felt just a bit more and... pass out...?

Harry growled. Merlin help him.

He pulled his wand out and flicked Emily off of Draco and bared over the boy. And it gave him pause. It wasn't a dagger sticking out with Draco's blood slowly trickling out. It was a key. And now that Harry was so close, he could feel the portkey residue on it.

He frowned.

Blaise. It must have been her. Or perhaps it was Theodore. Either way, this was pure genius. Brilliant, really.

And really, Draco didn't seem all too injured or affected. At least he seemed better than expected considering there was a blade sticking out of his chest. Obviously, this had been well thought out.

Now, just how to get Draco to come onto that page.

Considering, Draco was currently unconscious, that shouldn't be too hard.

Harry glanced at Emily, who was peering in over his shoulder. "Wanna help me carry him to the car?"

Emily scrunched up her face. Harry understood. Really, he did. Draco was bleeding, and all, and besides—

"We need to find a new place for DHQ, this—"

"Again?!"

Harry heaved Draco onto his shoulders, carried him towards the door which he kicked down and carried Draco to the car, tucking him nicely into the back of the car. "Yes, Em, again," he said after shutting the door shut. "That's what happens when you use magic and around the houses, remember." He scowled fiercely.

Emily sighed. "Guess we're gonna have to replace this one, as well...?"

"Got that right." Harry went around and slipped into the passenger seat.

Emily sighed again and slipped into the driver's seat at Harry's expectant look. She sparked the car, and it purred to life. Harry noticed that the neighbours were watching them like hawks. Harry sighed and run a hand through his hair as he slouched in the chair. It just had to be a Sunday, didn't it?

"Where're we going?" Emily asked.

"DHQ."

Confusion literally flared off Emily. "But... you said we have to move out...?"

Harry turned to glance at her, making sure to convey just how daft he thought she was acting and she blushed. "We will move, but obviously not now. We can't just—"

"But what if the plods turn up? I'm already on record, you know!"

Harry glanced at her again. "Well then, you best hope they don't show up. And if they do, you best fight your damn best. And if you don't, you best not rat us out. You know how I feel about rats."

Emily sighed. "He isn't dying, you know."

Harry smirked. "I know, but I'll like to get him medical care."

"Blaise will know what's up with him. I mean, she planned all this." She sounded more hopeful than confident in her words.

"Let's hope she's at DHQ, Em."

"She's got to be."

"She better. Because school starts in two days and all of us are going to Hogwarts!"


	11. Hogwarts and Revelations over Dinner

Albus allowed his eyes to roam across the Great Hall.

And a small smile touched his lips.

It was what he lived for—this!

The students!

It was moments like this—watching students burst through those reliable, ancient double doors, faces alight with delight, and the screechy voice as they threw their arms around friends they'd promised and failed to write to during the summer, and the constraining of tears, and the subtle fist-bumps under the table from the "cool wizards" who simply slapped each other on the back and gave those smirks as if they were concealing a secret worthy of his attention but he certainly would not become privy to—at least, not if they could help it.

And that moment, still deeply under the potent influence that was euphoria and elation, it'd be pierce them sharp and deep to the heart—where were the others? From other houses.

And then they'd be those tears again. But no, it always started with a shriek. Or no, actually, with a wisp—a flash faster than Krum on the broomstick—of hair. One second it was there brightly as if someone had whipped out their wand on a whim, giving that enthusiastic jab the majority seemed to favour and screamed out, "Lumos!" and now, it was light out. But oh no, it had gone terribly awry and the caster moaned in agony, flailing and wailing on the ground as his core flared up and... the light had died out.

And then the students from different houses would meet half way, embracing each other. They'd be very warm, all wide smiles and Severus would materialise by his side, his usual cheery self, and say, "Those brats have been stealing my Cheering Charms again!"

And Albus would chuckle, not bothering to infuriate Severus with the truth.

But they did. At least they looked like they were on Cheering Charms, the students. Their eyes would light up and the smile never would dim. Their voices would spike up, and suddenly they couldn't seem to not ramble, and none of them could possibly hear nor comprehend the other but bright beams would be exchanged and nods of agreements, as well as if all was nice and dandy, Voldemort tucked nine feet under, darkness banished back into the shadows.

And then Minerva would be suddenly be by his side, and be silent as she observed the scene. But then—always—three minutes later, she'd say in this monotone voice, "It's time, Albus!" And then she'd whirl around and Albus would cock his head to the side, right on time to nick the snitch from the other seeker and get a glimpse of a broad smile on the wrinkled face of his Deputy and his eyes would heat up, the only signal he received to the fireworks in there, and Severus would roll his eyes and snarl, "You really need to get that patched up, Albus!" and then Albus would chuckle and before he could even contemplate a response, Severus would be gone, plumbed in his seat, scowling fiercely, sharp eyes surveying the Hall, almost daring the congregation to meet eyes with him, his all black-attire shrieking 'friendly', his greasy hair freshly washed; the first and only time it'd be all year-long.

And then there'd be this thud as a door closed once more. So depressing, and a tear would trickle out—though this was admittedly rather more recent, the trickling of a tear—and he'd wipe it away just as a creak sounded and a harsh voice would say, "Albus!" and then his Deputy would retract her head and Severus would give off a loud sneer and totally ignoring the rest of the teachers watching in disdain, he'd say, "Every bloody year!"

And then Albus would chuckle and extend his arms out wide, offering them all a hug that they never seemed willing to accept. At the very least, none had yet to accept whilst at school. And he'd say, because no one would notice him or the fact that he desired, and ultimately, needed their attention for he sought—required—to hit a Bludger against their re-union.

Then he'd clear his throat thrice before eventually succeeding to swallow down the Quaffle situated in there all nice, warm and peachy living the 'Minister of Magic' life—alas, not these days—and he'd try to say to at least half the population that had been charmed by the 'Parent Charm' and obediently offer their ears, but then there were always those who were already seeking their own role and were already playing it. Albeit incredibly poor, but it was progress— after all, five points for trying a shot at goal.

But then he'd wiggle like a snake a hand into his robes and take a moment to admire his robes and then he'd be holding his wand, and his head would grow all heavy and he'd remember and he'd gasp and stagger for just a second as memories of Gellert and Arianna tortue him with the past and 'what-if's' and Severus would shoot to his feet and say in his harsh voice, "Headmaster! Are you alright?"

But then, by then, Albus would have regained his marbles and his snitch and would say with this placid smile, "But, of course, my boy!"

He'd wave his wand softly, and a little 'hum' would resonate around the hall, steadily growing louder as Albus willed it, and the students persevered—they always did!—and Albus would patiently raise the volume even higher and so did they and Severus would growl ever so loudly, and the teachers would give off this scent that reminded Albus of Potions' class and then finally, the students would fall of their broom as the Bludger finally collided with their vital organs and they'd slip up off the broom, graciously offering their attention.

"Lil' brats!" Severus would spit out with enough venom to kill a wizard of stature.

Albus would chuckle and say, "Thank you! Now, please, to your House tables, and do try to be respectful, I would hate for you to begin the term tomorrow morning groggy and limp on my account, and should you cast your mind back, you'll find that this very liberty I ask of you was provided to you."

And then, students would all at once remember to crack the tension in their necks. And then it'll be just like when England lost in the finals of the Quidditch World Cup that they'd hosted and been beaten—by the Scottish. Dead silent.

And then Albus would sink into his seat, all heavy right in tandem with the doors creaking open and his Deputy would march right in, lips set tight in a manner that Severus must have copied—or at the very least, compared notes with—the first-years obediently keeping on her tails.

But today, Albus slumped in disappointment back into his golden stool as he looked up and saw no Harry Potter.

It had been the same seven years ago. He'd glanced there, his eyes bright and wide—like a seeker who'd spotted the snitch—and then they dimmed when he realized that the Boy-Who-Lived wasn't present just like when the seeker got obstructed by efficient Beaters.

And then the Sorting Hat would go on his spiel and then there'd be that classic sag of relief from the first-years as they came to the conclusion that they did not, in fact, have to encounter a troll or a vampire or a giant nor a werewolf or any other creature, all they had to do was put on a hat.

And then they'd frown once more. Couldn't that be in private?

Albus chuckled as the very last person, "Yaxley, Rita!" sprinted off to join the Gryffindors after screaming in delight.

He rose to his feet and spread his arms out—

The double-door entrance to the Great Hall seemed to just explode open. And somebody whistled right in.

On a broomstick.

Rain dripping off of him.

The students all, and the teachers, turned to look at the boy, and Albus could almost hear the broomsticks taking off in their minds, "Just who the bloody hell is this lad?"

And then the boy raised his head and his black-hair popped into sight, and his emerald-green eyes and this stark smirk—

Albus felt his chest inflate. He chuckled. "Not quite punctual, Harry." But he had come. Albus smiled. A wide smile of genuine happiness.

* * *

Harry rolled his eyes. " _Why, allow me then to offer my most sincere apologies_."

As if he could be concerned by such a petty thing as punctuality. He shouldn't even have to attend school.

In fact, the moment he got what he needed, he was going to be right outta there.

The thought brought a smile to his lips, amidst the whispers and murmurs.

"Well, apology accepted, my dear boy." Harry scowled. "Please, do come forward." Harry glanced around and saw Draco looking at him, looking rather well considering he'd been looking like parchment less than forty-eight hours ago.

Draco nodded at Harry, who sighed in relief. It was nice to know that something this night was going according to plan.

The first person who managed to point out just where getting through a Death-Eater attack popped up on the plan was earning a Triwizard-winning from him.

Dumbledore gave this wide smile when Harry had climbed up the staircase that he squinted at, trying to judge and assess the honesty in all that and ended up well and truly stumped. Dumbledore spread his arms wide and something glinted in his eye, a surge of power, maybe but suddenly, Harry didn't feel very much like disobeying Dumbledore and warmly returned the hug.

Dumbledore slapped him on the back once they'd thankfully untangled from each other and directed him to an open seat next to this big ol' golden stool.

The students, and teachers, were all staring at Harry as if they were actually entitled to an explanation to his presence.

Harry sneered at this bloke staring into him over on the other side of Dumbledore's obnoxious golden stool.

Really, couldn't half of the galleons they used for that thing been used wisely? Like new school broom, perhaps? That way, Harry wouldn't have to hear Draco complain when he somehow got his broom confiscated and was left with no other choice but to ride with the school brooms.

And boy, was that bloke dark and ugly, playing the wizard Batman with far less finesse, to boot.

Applauds suddenly sounded and Harry gave his attention to Dumbledore.

Who was gesturing at him with a limp hand hanging and the whole school staring into Harry. He stared into Dumbledore, who gave him an imploring stare.

Harry sighed, gave his eyes a good roll and pushed to his feet. He let his lips fall into the smirk he was feeling and winked in Draco's direction, then coolly returned to his seat.

"Ah, Minerva!" Dumbledore said. "I'm afraid we might need the Hat. And the stool!" This woman had come out now from some door. Wearing this pointy hat. Tight-lipped smile. Definitely someone Harry didn't wanna encounter on a night of rule-breaking. Come to think of it, that was almost every night.

She gave this clipped nod that suggested that she wasn't doing it for the jolly good of it, but because she absolutely had to. She whirled around stiffly and returned seconds later with a stool chair, and a filthy-looking hat, Dumbledore beaming all the white—the white-bearded buffoon—and the Madam coming to a screeching halt before the High table. "And just who needs sorting?"

Dumbledore cleared. "Potter, Harry!"

And then, so predictably, the gasps just took off. And there were the whispers as Harry rose to his feet.

"Harry Potter?"

"They found him?"

"Told you Dumbledore'd find him."

"I bet Dumbledore always knew where he was."

"How come the Prophet hasn't reported this yet?"

Merlin above, this school was gonna drive him raving mad, he thought as he jammed the hat on and plumbed his arse onto the stool.

Hmm, went a little voice in his ear. Like a whisper that also somehow echoed in his head. Draco had likened talking to the Sorting Hat as having a conversation with a girl. All listening, no talking and a wonderful reward at the end.

So Harry kept his trap nice and shut.

Hmmmm...

Oh, very nice, Potter. Very, very nice.

Hmmmm...

Harry began glancing around in the dark insides of the Hat, the stench of sweat and... lice...? creating this particularly foul odour and he clenched the sides of the stool and gave the Hat seven seconds and then began counting and he was on three now—

"SLYTHERIN!"

Harry jerked the Hat off his head roughly. "That thing needs a wash. A good one!" to dead silence.

Harry glanced around curiously.

Eye-balls dug into his person, piercing into him and knocking on his door, seemingly imprinted upon them for Merlin above, were they tasking their sockets with loads, "WHAT?!"

Harry shrugged and strolled down to the Slytherin table just as Draco actually broke into applauds.

Theodore was thoughtful enough to slide down a bit to create space for Harry to wedge himself right in between. Harry raised his head to meet curious frowns staring into and wizards cracking their fingers, wands in their hands in their very best efforts to look all tough and Slytherin-intimidating.

It was a good try—only problem was Harry basically ruled Knockturn Alley.

And so he just smirked.

Up ahead, Dumbledore clapped his hand and almost like a spell, everybody seemed to turn away from him and give the old man their attention—even that complete pillock-redhead boy at the Gryffindor he'd met at Grimmauld Place who had yet to notice the spite he'd released into the earth whilst gawping in shock.

Harry leaned into Draco, curious about something he'd noticed. "Where's Blaise?"

"Decided she didn't need Dumbledore and his barmy September first ramblings, I'll bet."

Harry thought that over, and realized that was actually very possible.

And then, food popped up on the table and everybody dug in. Classily, of course, they were Slytherins, for Merlin's sake.

And silently.

Why?

Harry had no bloody clue, and he wasn't in the least bit bothered to find out. This was some bloody good roast chicken, and Goyle down the bench had discovered a way to properly grief his father. Unfortunately, it did involve a large amount of roast chicken.

"So," began this girl, on the other side of the bench, yet directly in front of Harry. "You finally deigned to make your appearance at Hogwarts?" Harry didn't bother glancing up, rounding up the very last of the roast chickens and was pleasantly surprised to see new ones, steam sashaying outta of it.

And then the hair on his skin began tugging. And then dancing and he felt his mouth go all wet and his back go all rigid and gave a big sigh and glanced up into the girl's face. She was a brunette, he now saw. Her soft voice had already told him she was a girl.

Now, looking up into her—the green eyes, the cute little lips, the high cheekbones, the silky hair, Merlin have mercy, the bosom on her—Harry couldn't help the smirk.

"What can I say? I felt a pull here," he said, staring right into her eyes, elbows propped on the table.

"Oh really?" she breathed.

Harry wagged a brow. "I'm still trying to find the source."

He heard Theodore snort right next to him, but brushed it off calmly. Theodore was still holding onto his V-card, and thus, had no clue what life felt like without the card itching you. Draco, of course, understood. That's why the lad just went on with his meal.

Oh, wait, he was actually putting the moves on this girl beside him. Funny, that.

Either way, the pretty bird's not disastrous conversation with Harry seemed to prompt a wave of conversation that Harry... well, he hardly loathed. That was mostly because these were pretty birds.

In all honesty, it was a bit unfair. Harry was rather surprised he'd yet to hear of any rapes within Slytherin House.

Honestly, a blonde, fit, elegant girl with a tickling laugh. Greengrass, she said her name was. And Harry couldn't help but think it was a fitting name. The grass was definitely greener on her side.

And then there was this girl. Dark-haired to the shoulders. Oddly pretty even though she kinda reminded him of a bull-dog, the way she always seemed to have scrunched her face up when speaking to him. And he could literally just tell by the amount of hate she managed to get behind her glares; this one would like it rough.

And then there was this... rather large one. And the way she hogged the food and glared into Crabbe and Goyle spelled it all out for Harry. No wonder those two had been on their best behaviour since fourth year.

And threesomes, as well, Harry thought as he clenched his fists.

Not bad.

Soon, desert was here and Harry made sure to snag the vanilla ice-cream lightening quick, and good thing, too, because Crabbe—or was it Goyle?— grunted in disappointment and settled for vanilla.

Draco made a sound of appreciation and bagged himself chocolate. "Nice and rapid, mate. I, myself, don't have to squabble it out with anybody." And Draco smirked, all cheery about it.

Theodore then went all tense and glanced down.

For a moment, Harry frowned.

And then he gasped as he realized that Theodore was just looking at a message.

Draco pushed the empty ice-cream bowl back into place and Harry copied him, feeling a tad better about it now that he had company.

"Is he..." Harry looked into Draco, and frowned, following Draco's gaze. Draco was frowning. But past Harry. At Theodore. He leaned into Harry's ear. "Is he...? Inspecting his crotch...?"

Harry choked on his ice-cream.

"No!" came Theodore's furious hiss. "I hardly need to commit such a mundane task."

"Beg to differ," Draco offered, who looked anything but sorry. "But you seemed a tad busy down there! Found gold, perhaps? You could use it these days, I suppose."

Theodore scowled. "So could you, I should think! At least, I rightly deserve my place outside of Azkaban."

Draco looked shocked for a moment and Harry cleared his throat, his body spiking and pulling almost yelling out, "crowd watching!" And then Draco turned to Harry, and quipped, "Guess he didn't quite manage to scratch the itch off!"

Harry wanted to laugh but he contained it to a bright smile for Theodore, who was scowling fiercely. Draco, though, harrumphed and attacked his ice-cream with disturbing excitement. He briefly had to wonder if Crabbe or Goyle hadn't somehow managed to possess his best friend.

"Theo," Theo glanced at Harry, and Harry managed to just catch his eyes. "You alright?"

Theodore wriggled his eyes free. "Touching as your concern happens to be,"—and now the sarcasm literally flowed down his chin—"I'm afraid it may be better suited being handed to Blaise."

Harry raised a brow in confusion.

Draco, though, couldn't be bothered being subtle in front of his friends.

He leaned forward, elbows propped onto the table, sighed and said, "Dear Theo, just when are you going to accept that Blaise will never be held down by the threat of 'detention.' "

Harry chuckled as Theodore scowled fiercely. Theodore always claimed he'd forgiven Draco for corrupting Blaise, who'd been a "harmless, rule-abiding citizen of Hogwarts" in her infancy, a prospect Harry couldn't quite envisage but they both swore on their parents—which was quite a big deal for Draco and Blaise because they actually gave a fuck about their parents—that it did happen.

Harry'd never gotten around to asking Blaise, funnily enough.

"Never, Draco," Theodore said with this absolutely fake, strained smile that Draco returned, and then Theodore swivelled to face Harry, looking grave and Harry felt his stomach jump.

"What?" Theodore didn't respond, just clenching his lips, and his eyes glancing at the feet of Harry. "What?" he hissed. "Is Blaise dead? Is Blaise dead?! Is that it?" Harry grabbed Theodore's robes and looked him deep in his eyes. "Cuz if she is, as well, you'll be joining her, Theo, for not telling me right away!"

Theodore grimaced and roughly pulled Harry's hands from his robes. "Well, the good news is, I won't have to die—"

"Shame," Draco interjected. "I was hoping—"

Harry swivelled his head around. "Malfoy, nobody gives a Knut just what you were hoping for."

Draco pulled back with a look of shock. "Salazar, what flew up _your_ arse and died? You might want to contact Bulstrode. Now,"—and he actually sat up straight like his next words would actually greatly concern Harry—"I have yet to experience this but trust me, this is virtual first-hand experience. Setting's fifth year, minutes before Charms O. ," Harry growled and punched the space between him and Draco in the bench, and Draco increased the speed on his tale, "and I'd forgotten something, the—"

"You had to revise for your Charms?" Theodore piped up and Harry gave the boy a 'you have got to be kidding me!' glance.

Theodore grimaced in apology, and glanced back at Draco—

"That's not the point," he burst out and now he'd swivelled completely to face them both, face burning with delight and eyes twitching. "So I burst into the room and you'll never guess what slaps me in the face."

"Gwenog Jones, under the Incarcerous spell, and naked." Theodore glanced questioningly atHarry, who shrugged back at him.

To be fair, though, Draco did have an unhealthy obsession with Gwenog Jones. In fact, Harry had almost lost Draco's friendship a few years back when he'd sold all of Draco's posters of her for some then badly needed cash.

Draco shook his head. "Nope, good guess though. You know me well, I have to say, my friend."

Theodore rolled his eyes. "What? Two fit birds going at it in each other's arse."

Draco ooh'd. "Close. Very close." He leaned forward. "It was Crabbe, and Goyle, and Bulstrode— I know, right (Harry had just gasped) but keep the bludger in your mouth; I'm not done yet—Bulstrode was actually deep in Crabbe's arse—"

"Oh, Merlin, I'm trying to eat here," Theodore complained with a pulled face and a raised bowl of ice-cream that hadn't even been touched. Harry scowled, realizing that Theodore had nicked that from him. He leaned forward but his stomach stretched dangerously and he decided it'd be better to just let this one go.

"Too bad," Draco said dismissively. "So, Crabbe is actually moaning, right?—oh, you're not having that bowl of ice-cream, are you?" Theodore hadn't even finished thinking it over before Draco snaked it from under his hand. "Thanks. And guess where Crabbe's mouth is?"

"Up Goyle's arse."

Draco shook his head at Theodore. "Nope—but downright dark stuff, mate," he said, sounding impressed and Harry couldn't deny he was a bit surprised by Theodore's language. Draco and Theodore exchanged a quick fist-bump.

"Fannying about her fanny."

Draco laughed and they high-fived.

"Yeah. And you'll never guess where Goyle's mouth was?"

Theodore shook his head. "Yeah, you make a good point so you wanna tell me what that is?" Theodore hated—absolutely despised—guessing games.

"Imagine if he was sucking Crabbe off, though?" Theodore snorted at Harry's suggestion.

Draco beamed. And Theodore roared with a sound of disbelief. "Oh, come on!"

Harry laughed. "That's just bollocks and very disturbing!" But Theodore was smiling. Nice and wide.

"Bloody brilliant, you mean." The three glanced at each other. And then laughed.

Theodore broke out of it first, perhaps it was the looks they were getting. Probably not, they'd been getting those for at least half an hour now.

"So, just how does this contribute to the story though?" They all glanced at Draco, who'd got himself a cup of pumpkin juice.

He set the glass down at jabbed a thumb at Harry. "That Harry ol' chap over here should contact good ol' Millie for some up-tight removal from the backside. It should prove helpful, me thinks," he finished with a smirk and finished his glass.

Theodore shook his head at Draco, grinning though. "Right, Draco, but seriously, what are we gonna do about Blaise?"

Harry raised an unimpressed eye-brow. "Well, we'll decide that when you see it fit to tell me what's got her in a tizzy."

"Oh, she's not in a tizzy." Harry glanced sharply at Draco questioning him. "She's just seriously injured, scratching herself to safety inside the Shrieking Shack."

Harry gasped.

Draco, though, was just nodding casually as he glanced into his drink, almost admiring it. "Mhm. Why're you acting all surprised, Harry? It's not like you didn't get the Whisper."

But he hadn't. He hadn't gotten any message.

He dug within his dragon-skin boots, and retrieved his Mirror from his dragon-skin socks. He touched the Mirror—

He shook his head. No, no shudder. No new message.

"I didn't get it!"

Draco hmm'd. "Well, I suppose she wouldn't want you knowing that she run back to Lestrange Manor to fraternise—"

"Draco!" Theodore said. "She didn't... and you know—"

"Why?"

"You need to ask?! Turned defector, I reckon." Harry turned to face Draco, frowning, well and truly lost.

Harry glanced into Theodore, but he refused to meet him in the eye, and so Harry sought out Draco, who did give his face up.

And then Draco gave him this disbelieving face. "You have no clue what good ol' fate has been Beating around whilst you've been gone, do you?" He laughed.

And Harry scowled. "You best tell me when I'm back." He made to rise to his feet, all—

Draco rolled his eyes at Harry. "I'll hand you a snitch and give you the whole story right now."

Theodore snorted. "How can you give him the whole story when you were knocked out for the first part of it?"

Harry sank back down, frowning as he finally got a good grip on his juddering broomstick. "Wait a sec'. Are you saying something happened after DHQ?" It had been all fine—Draco well and truly alive and expected to be healthy when at Hogwarts—when he'd left.

"You bet your Firebolt it did!" Draco said and downed another shot of pumpkin juice.

Harry looked into Theodore for confirmation and got it in the form of a sad grimace.


	12. Fallen friends and fatal Fiendfyre

Harry pushed—hard—to his feet.

So hard the utensils wobbled a little at the table, swaying precariously but before any of the cries of protest and shoddy outrage could probably circulate and make their way to him, Harry was already before the double doors he'd blasted open on his flight here, his blood well and truly boiling—

"HARRY!"

He smirked at Dumbledore's call.

But he didn't bother responding to it.

It was cold outside.

Raining.

Which normally would mean lots of nail-biting wind but actually it was very nice weather. Chilly, but not really cold.

Not this night. Nah, on this night, the wind whistled past roaring for one's attention and thunder cackled in the skies as it streamed by.

The portraits shook on the walls as the winds passed and the ground almost seemed to be humming and oddly enough, moving.

Either way, Harry was more than relieved to see the hide of Hogwarts in the form of a slammed cellar door and a box of Fizzing Whizzbees.

Harry let out a breath. "Coming to get you, Blaisie! Hang on!"

And then he glanced out the window and realized that it had stopped raining. But there seemed to be one hell of a wind making it's way across Hogsmead, though. What with the chiming sounds of metals encountering each other and the window creaking as it considered giving up.

"Fuck's sake—I so should have brought my broom!"

"Why, big seeker, I think you've got it on you," came this flirty voice and Harry whirled about wildly.

It was a girl. Nineteen , eighteen, round that age. She winked at him from the staircase, biting her lips a little and chest definitely pushed out.

Thin, bespectacled and oddly, pink-haired and... booby. That was the only word that struck Harry. Booby. She had boobs, lots of 'em. And—

Harry blinked up from the ground, this weird whirring sound going off in his head. "Ow!"

The girl came into focus once he blinked, frowning at her wand. A white stream of light streaked out and sashayed away.

The girl finally seemed to notice him and gave him a wide smile, wand pointed at Harry. "Don't worry, Harry! We're gonna have you all safe and sound in a jiffy." And then she give him this big beam that stumped Harry for one whole second, her hand falling limply to the side.

And then he gave a roar and kicked hard at the girl's ankle. Her eyes widened and she buckled and fell on top of Harry, her wand clattering to the ground and Harry shoved her roughly off him and pushed to his feet, getting his wand out. And now, he stared down at her—wand in hand.

And he couldn't help but smirk as he snatched her wand off the ground. "How's this for safe and sound?"

The girl gave a cute pout. "What'd they call you?"

"Well, this is an out-of-order situation! I usually ask that—you know, being the Auror and all!" She glanced sharply at Harry.

Harry chuckled. "I sincerely hope that wasn't your dive at the Snitch."

The girl's eyes narrowed at Harry, and his smirk widened even further. "Hestia wasn't wrong about you!"

That gave Harry pause.

So, here was another of Dumbledore's lapdogs...

Harry snarled.

Funny, really, that Dumbledore still kept these imbeciles on him. Like the old man expected them to suddenly come up one better and actually slip the Quaffle through the hoop on this occasion after having the Keeper swat the previous ten away.

Like, he, Harry James Potter—the Silver Boy—could possibly make such an error.

"What's got you all worked up?"

Harry glanced up, scowl still decorating his face. "Tell you what, Dumbledore-worshipper," —her eyes narrowed at the edges and an irritated sigh slipped out her lips and Harry wagged a brow at her—"Yeah, I figured that out."

"Incarcerous!" he roared.

She pouted at him, all tied-up and his broom stood up as he watched her try to draw him close. He tutted at her and watched as her eyes seemed to flame up and he chuckled and whirled about and suddenly a shout sounded and a shape blurred into sight—

 _Duratus gelo kedaus._

There went a dull thud.

It was a man. Long legs, tall. Brown hair. Scraggly. Scraggly beard, to boot. Dull green eyes and this urgency in them staring into the ceiling. And yet this lad over here had managed to get himself dragon-hide boots. Even reserve Chasers weren't bagging those these days, mate.

Harry slapped his wand against his palm. "Another Dumbledore-lapdog, I'm guessing!"

The girl snarled and Harry laughed and bent to nick the man's wand. Turns out, his last spell had been an edited Patronus. One that transmitted a message, instead of shielding against a Dementor.

Something about "Stay where you are. I'm coming!"

Harry huh'd. "Reckon that's how this one found me, innit?" The girl lifted her chin up and pressed her lips together, cheeks squeezed—picture of defiance.

Harry chuckled, rose to his feet and approached her, enjoying how her eyes dimmed and how her chest was going up and then down and—

"Crucio!" he roared, making sure to inject relish and mad delight in his voice, a deranged smirk if possible and her eyes seemed to flash open and her lips softly disconnect—

And she screamed just as Harry wrapped his hands around the wand and bent it to its' limit and a sharp snap sounded as it gave way and smoke billowed out of its' residue as the two pieces clattered to the ground to the girl's—Tonks—heavy breathing.

Harry held her eyes, wide as they remained, wagged a brow at her. "Wanna tell me your name now?"

There was no reaction from her, head bowed now.

"Tonks." It slipped out softly from her lips, so soft that Harry had to strain his ears to hear.

What?

"I'm sorry, would you mind giving me more...? A last name, perhaps."

She raised her head now and fixed him with this look that tickled his spine. "Tonks," she said through gritted teeth, "is my last name, you—"

Harry shrugged. "Never heard of it."

"Yeah, well, I wouldn't expect you to have, seeing as it's a muggle-born family name and you're obviously a pure-blood cock-sucker!" she finished with some impressive venom.

Her words, though, left Harry's mouth hanging open. He glanced about in disbelief, sincerely shocked to hear such things spoken about him.

And then he laughed.

And laughed.

"D'you even know who I am?"

Really, it'd be Dumbledore-esque to have his little Order on the search for him without them even knowing he was Harry Potter—you know, the Boy-Who-Lived and all. Come to think of it, though, that'd require the Order members to be a certain level of dumb. And considering, they were basically the only substantial resistance Voldemort had faced during the First War, Harry figured they couldn't all be a bunch of blighters.

His mirror vibrated, giving him a shock and Harry quickly rummaged it out from his pocket. It was Blaise.

"Harry. Shrieking Shack. Pl—" she couldn't get much out after that, coughs taking over.

It occurred to Harry the moment his feet landed on the ground after slinking out the window that it really was a total blighter move to surge out the Great Hall in a great rush after coming in with quite the rush to begin with, Headmaster unfortunately well and truly present, curious eyes indeed open and most certainly watching, taking notes and sending owls—without a fucking jacket!

He blew out a breath and watched as the smoke billowed out of his mouth and broke into a hurried walk to the Shrieking Shack—Blaise was definitely gonna have to reward him for this!

Hands stuffed deep into his pockets, head-down and teeth chattering loudly, Harry trudged towards the Whimping Wollow.

One feet carried a time.

His skin prickled and his hands and feet—he couldn't quite feel them anymore—but he made sure to drag them along and lights suddenly seem to blare and roar on, and now he couldn't quite catch those snatches of conversations that had flirted past his ears (quite frankly, he couldn't quite feel his ears anymore) and he panted and panted—

And thankfully, it seemed to just rise up from utter nothingness—suddenly baring upon Harry—and Harry let out a sigh as he watched the branches rumble around, ruthlessly shaking off little droplets of water off to the tune of a quiet hum, and then he bent over, bringing his hands to his knees taking a moment to catch his breath—

"Well, well, well—" Harry whirled about and the spell simply surged out of him.

"Khefa!"

The man went still—nose flared and eyes the colour of death wide and almost disbelieving—and slumped to his knees. And then his upper-body fell, too.

Harry growled. "See what you made me do, Dumbledore?!"

He turned back to face the Whomping Willow, and then realized he wasn't quite small enough to paralyze the tree on his own. He blew air out his mouth, and rubbed his hands together.

He remained silent, thinking over how to proceed.

"No... too big... Too—oh wait, yes, a rat."

Harry nodded, and got his own wand out. He conjured a rat to life, and before it could properly gain it's bearing, Harry whispered, "Ditio!" It was a mild control spell, and since this was just a rat—

Yes!

It had gone all still, very uncharacteristic of a rat.

And it's little small nose was up in the air.

Harry figured that meant it was ready and listening for orders. Of course, the rat could perfectly be sniffing the air for the scent of dinner—but Harry doubted it.

Harry thought hard on the little knop from the back, and couldn't resist the opportunity to curse himself for coming all the way to Hogsmead. He'd encountered three—three! —of Dumbledore's lackeys, all that could've been avoided had he simply taken the route via Hogwarts.

"And it'd have been much shorter, as well, bloody hell!"

There was a final, loud croak and then the tree seemed to go still. Suddenly, squeaks came towards Harry and he glanced down to see the rat doing everything to get his attention—not excluding dances and a somersault that definitely a bit more training.

Harry gave it a grim smile, and in one, sharp moment, got out his wand and Vanished the rat away. "Appreciate it, really do, rodent!" Harry cackled and got onto all fours.

And began to crawl.

It was tight, and his jeans picked up filth and it didn't smell like roses, and Harry was frowning fiercely by the time he'd reached the entrance, teeth chattering and his palm very stiff, his toes almost disconnected from his body. He pulled himself in, and pushed to his feet, puffing, and suddenly a sound—like that a camera made after taking a picture—went off and now there was this voice going off.

"We've got Blaise, Harry." It was Theodore, Harry knew immediately. "Don't worry, she'll be safe and sound soon, don't—"

"What're you doing?" Draco injected curiously. And then there was this weak moan.

 _That'll be Blaise_. Harry sighed. They were making a recording. For him. Thank Merlin he'd gotten up here in time. Harry manoeuvred himself over to the staircase and—rigidly—climbed right up.

"Shut up!" Theodore was saying. "We can't tell you—"

"What're you doing?"

"Malfoy, best keep your mouth shut otherwise I'll Bludger it shut for you!"

"What're you doing?!"

Harry laughed as Theodore let out an enraged roar and then suddenly he couldn't hear anything apart from the windows moaning as the wind rattled into it.

"Ooo and brilliantly done, Harry, way to make an impression, I say."

"That's not the—"

"Versace DHQ in like fiteen...?"

"MALFOY!"

A beep sounded signalling that was the end of the recording.

Harry laughed—he figured Draco had just disconnected the recording at that.

And—almost as if to prove his point—Draco let out a piteous moan seconds later and Harry figured Theodore had decided it was time to "Bludger" Draco's mouth for him.

Thankfully for Draco—not that Harry was all too glad to be doing so—Harry had arrived and his footfall halted Theodore's raised wand against a cowering Draco against the bed in the corner. Theodore whirled around and frowned at Harry. "Harry?"

"Know anyone else with _these_ eyes?" Draco scuttled out of the corner and employed Theodore's brief distraction to knick his wand. Theodore let out an irritated "hey!" and Harry laughed.

"Don't know anybody with worse facial features, nope," Draco quipped.

"You obviously haven't met Weasley."

Draco cocked his head to the side, slapping both wands against his right palm. "Touche." He pointed at Theodore with the wands. "And you, Naughty Boy," Harry laughed at the on-going joke; Theodore scowled and crossed his arms against his chest (he still couldn't find the humour in it, six years in), "you won't be getting this back until you learn to behave like an actual pure-blood wizard."

Theodore snorted. "A bit rich hailing from you, Malfoy. Epitome of pure-blood these days, are you?"

"So much so that even a Nott can spot it."

Nott growled and stiffened and suddenly, a thick cloud seemed to enclose them all and Harry sighed, very well aware as to what was going on.

"Hey. Hey, hey, hey! Guys! No fighting! At least not now. Alright?"

Theodore and Draco took their times divorcing from each other's eyes but finally, they gave him their eyes and nods of acquiesce.

"Good. Now, where's Blaise?"

They both gave him these looks that made Harry feel a tad thick. "What?"

"Whatever happened to becoming the first Potter male who wouldn't need glasses?"

Harry scowled. "Still very much on the rails, I'll have you know, Malfoy."

"Mate, you're as blind as a bat, how're you going to see the rails?" Draco snorted at Theodore's quip and the two exchanged a wink.

Harry rolled his eyes. He was about to ask even more questions when a moan came from the bed, drawing his eyes.

Harry gulped and scratched his head. Draco and Theodore sniggered.

"Huh... she's _not_ dead, right?"

"Unfortunately." Harry felt his insides loosen.

Theodore glared at Draco, but Harry just heaved a sigh and conjured a seat. And got himself all nice and cozy. Get himself as close to the ground before the Bludger unseated him from his broomstick.

"Alright, honestly, guys, what the fuck is up with y'all?"

Draco harrumphed and trailed over to the windows, giving Harry his back. Harry sighed and sought out Theodore, eyes alight, and stomach tingling. Thankfully, Theodore was cringing in this way that told Harry he was about to get the Bludger in the mug.

"So, after you left Malfoy at DHQ—"

"In perfectly good health, may I interject," Harry interrupted. Draco snorted.

"More or less," Theodore said cautiously, his eyes monitoring Draco, who was still resolutely watching the snow-flakes leak out of the sky and litter the ground. "Draco's recovery was to be expected."

"Where was Blaise all through this may I ask? She wasn't at DHQ when I and Emily—"

"Emily and I." Harry glared at Theodore, who raised his hands up.

"When Emily and I," Harry ground out, and Theodore nodded. "Got back."

"Well..." Harry raised a brow at Theodore's stutter. And his stomach began churning once Theodore slumped and he run a hand across his face. "We don't—We don't know, Harry!"

Harry sagged into his seat. "Wow."

"Yeah..." Theodore wandlessly and wordlessly summoned his wand back from Draco's grasp and coolly ignoring the Malfoy's heir—actually, Draco was currently the Malfoy patriarch, wasn't he? Huh!—heated glare, he conjured himself a seat and plumbed himself into it. And then Draco sneered and returned to looking out the window.

"And Andrew? And Liza?" Harry asked.

Theodore massaged his neck. "What about them?"

"Where are they?!" Harry asked. "They weren't at DHQ. I haven't seen them in ages. What is up with that?"

"Well, you didn't see them because they were out looking for Blaise."

"They haven't found anything?"

"Hadn't," Theodore said, cocking his neck to glance at the body tucked into bed.

Harry heaved a sigh. "So, what now? Blaise got herself injured and so... what... how—"

"Mate, you have to understand, we've got bigger fish to fry right now!"

Harry ran a hand through his hair, simultaneously holding off a yawn. "What now?"

Theodore leaned forward. "Listen very closely, mate, this—"

"Kind of my expertise, Theo, but do go on!"

Theodore paused to level a glare at Harry and then proceeded. "Look, Blaise is a student at Hogwarts."

The yawn finally slipped past Harry's resistance. "Indeed." He pushed to his feet in an effort to make sure he didn't slip into slumber.

"And—well, I suppose you don't know yet—but Blaise is seriously injured."

Harry raised a brow. His curiosity spiked briefly and he made towards the bed and peeled the blanket off her face. And gasped.

Her olive-skin—normally so glistening—almost seemed cracked and... his stomach growled and sagged and his knees buckled. Peeling skin. Her skin was peeling off. His eyes rushed down to her feet and he ripped the blanket fully off her to get a glimpse and suddenly his stomach was swirling up and down without his permission.

Her feet... they were all limp. Like bone-less.

His eyes trailed up to her eyes and his heart balled up at the sight. They'd become these gigantic huge eye-balls—almost like golf-balls—that were threatening to explode out of her eye sockets.

And Harry—face cringed—drew the blanket back over her. And turned to face Theodore. "The Mummy Curse!"

Theodore grimaced. "Yeah, we already figured that out."

Harry cocked a brow. "Draco figured that out," Theodore explained. Harry spared Draco a glance. He was still stonily ignoring them.

"She's lucky that's all she got—the _traitor_!" Scratch that!

"Yeah, Malfoy? Really think so?"

And then Draco was right back to ignoring them. Theodore rolled his eyes and shrugged at Harry. "Good try, mate. Anyway, like I was saying, Blaise can't go to school for a while. The bad news is Dumbledore and the Ministry won't just allow this to pass."

Harry blew a breath out of his mouth. "Just why the hell did she even have to go to Lestrange Manor? Single-handedly, as well. I mean, how daft could you be?"

Draco whirled about, eyes glinting and lips set tight. But his mouth was still clipped tight shut.

"Listen, mate," Theodore began. "It's late as hell—"

"You don't have to tell me," Harry muttered under his breath.

"And unlike Malfoy here and Blaise," Theodore went on. "I actually do favour paying attention in class—"

Draco growled under his breath.

Theodore just resolutely ignored that, jaw clenched. "What I'm proposing takes us all to bed... like in half an hour."

Harry huh'd. "I'm listening."

"Well, listen good, because it's a complicated plan. We're gonna need the whole gang."

Harry sighed. "Half an hour, you said?" Draco asked.

Theodore nodded.

"You in, Malfoy?"

Draco glanced at Harry, eyes droopy but he managed a weak nod. "Lovely. Bludger us out, Theo, with your fantastic plan."

* * *

"What time is it?"

"One!"

"Galloping Grindylows!"

Draco sighed, smothering a glare. "Get a hold of your broomstick, Harry!"

"Oi! Unlike you, mate, I've had a shit couple of weeks."

Draco stretched out his muscles, figuring it wouldn't do to appear tense and turned to face Harry. He heaved a breath—

"Yeah? Yeah, Harry?"

"Yeah!"

Draco ground his teeth together. "Been injured recently, hmm, Harry?"

"Score!"

"Had your parents killed before your eyes, did you, Harry?"

"Score!"

"Had to see a friend kill your parents?"

"Nope, but I did kinda accidentally kill my own mum; face it, Malfoy, life is hell on Earth, and you're not the only burning, mate!"

An image of Harry shrieking in pain as fire cackled underneath and slowly enveloped him rushed through Draco's mind and he ground his teeth as he banished the image and the release it provided him away.

There was silence for a while as owls fluttered past in the sky, birds squawking, the soft splashes of drizzles splattering to the ground, the harsh guffaws hailing from the Hog's Head Inn.

"Don't you just miss those days when it was just Hog's Head Inn like every night?"

Draco didn't respond, simply cocking his head to observe the Inn as well. And a small smile touched his lips. "It was alright, back then."

Harry chuckled. "It was brilliant, you could argue."

"Theo always complaining about me and Blaise, you know—"

Harry snorted. "Can't possibly image why!"

"Mostly about ending up in detention after a rare mishap in—"

Harry coughed. "Rare mishap...?" he asked, his shining brightly even in the dark.

Draco nodded. "Yup, which was really fucked up because he was responsible for at least a third of all prank ideas."

"That Naughty Boy!"

Draco laughed.

And Harry smiled.

And then they were silent.

Watching the Hog's Head Inn, each quietly observing the Hog's Head Inn as memories racked past them.

"Look, mate," Harry began. Draco glanced up into Harry's face. "I'm really sorry about your parents."

Draco looked at him for a while, frowning, deep into his eyes—those emerald green orbs—and then nodded and went back to looking at the Hog's Head Inn, annoyed, seething really, that Harry—Harry! His best friend for fuck's sake—would think he needed condolences. He was fine! Oh, he was as fine as possible! Draco sneered.

"It was so much more fun back in the day."

Harry cocked his head around, a prickling buzz going off in his head that he managed to shake off. "I'm sorry, what?"

The smile seemed to slid right off Harry's face. "It was so much more... fun. In the day."

Draco nodded. "Bulgaria was insane!" he recalled with a wistful smile.

"I still can't believe Dobby managed to pass as you for a whole two months."

Draco laughed. "Yeah, well, Father and Mother were a tad—" His smile slid right off his face and his shoulders sagged and he heaved a heavy sigh.

Merlin's manky, old bollocks did that hurt!

Draco grit his teeth, his hands balled up looking like miniature Beaters and forced himself to look at Harry.

Who was cringing. Draco stiffly crossed his arms across his chest, keeping his eyes firmly focused on the Hog's Head Inn.

So he thought—

Harry, his best friend, thought... He sneered. He thought he was sad. He thought he needed time... To mourn and... and... and all that stuff. That bullshit.

Draco snorted. He was fine. "I'm fine!" he muttered. "I'm fine!" he repeated to himself to beat the message better into himself. He grit his teeth together and swatted at his twitching eye. He missed, but thankfully, the twitch had died.

At that very moment, as well, a crack rippled right through the sky and Theodore popped into being a little ways before the Hog's Head Inn. He gave them all a little nod and took out this little little flask he had holed up his pocket. Then they turned back to face Theodore—and just like they'd planned, Blaise—at least physically!— now stood there in his place.

Harry shook his head, his hand scurrying for his wand in his pocket. "I will _never_ get Potions."

Draco snorted. It was _just_ Polyjuice! "It's a delicate art, Potter—something you couldn't possibly begin to comprehend."

Harry rolled his eyes. "Better be delicate with me, Malfoy. Otherwise you just might need some Potions to reverse what I do with you."

Draco snorted. "Dunno why you seem to think I'll be the one needing potions. The why I see it we'd both end up spending a couple of days under the blanket, if you catch my flight of thought. And you forget—unlike you—I would actually know what to do with a potion!"

Harry scowled.

Then Draco's mirror vibrated in his pocket he made to go for it but then he saw Harry had already rummaged it out so he stretched his neck over Harry's shoulders only for Blaise's rather fierce, boiling orbs to pierce into him. A shock went through Draco and he immediately turned away. "Oh!" Harry exclaimed.

Draco chuckled. "Bet I'm not the only one glad I won't be seeing that for a couple of months," he said with a smile, his insides rather nice and warm.

"Let's put this Quaffle through the hoops!" Draco rolled his eyes at Harry's enthusiasm.

In silence, Harry and Draco conjured black hoods and snake-like masks to cover their faces—making sure to fit it on just right so that they could still see (Draco batting Harry's nagging concerns away)—and then they nodded at each other.

"Passable?"

Draco shrugged, though he couldn't help but notice his tension. All stiff, hands almost Permanantly-charmed to his side, rigid posture, missing that trademark flair—just this air, this foul air, really, about him that drew Draco's attention. "At night, definitely!"

Harry sighed, and he almost seemed to deflate at that. "Good." He turned to Blaise, who was watching them with flinty eyes. And Harry raised up his hand, making a little "V" with his forefinger and his thumb. Draco mirrored him and then hesitated to apparate after Harry, wanting to ascertain that Theodore had properly Disillusioned himself—because that spell had always to been a bit gnarly for him but thankfully, the wind seemed to simply suck Blaise away, and Draco popped right away just to appear a few meters back right before the road led off to the stores at Hogsmead.

Draco could feel his legs tremble as thrills wracked through his body and he forced a cocky smirk onto his face and strived to appear normal to Harry.

"Put your hood on, mate." Harry did so.

"I look alright?"

Draco sighed and rubbed his hands together. "You look fine, mate."

"Right... Let's go catch this Snitch."

Draco hurriedly put his hand out to stop Harry. "Hold up, mate, you're forgetting your cane."

Draco conjured one for himself, taking a second to admire the rough metal that silver was and how it almost glinted in the dark and the little thud it made when it connected with the ground. "I thought just your—" Draco glanced up into Harry's face.

"Hmm?"

Harry shook his head and he obediently conjured a black cane and leather gloves. Draco glanced down, concealing a wide smirk.

"Right, we're all set now. Remember, Draco, that's Theo in there, not Blaise."

Draco felt his mouth dry up and his blood seemed to be running around so fast that it'd burst out of him and his eye-sight had blurred for a second there but his smirk, his beam... That he couldn't _not_ project. "Oh, I know, Harry. Don't worry, I know!"

His plan began as planned.

Harry and Draco swaggered into sight, eyes shining—hopefully, Harry's were shining malevolently, as well—the thuds of their canes resonating rather loudly. Draco felt a smirk stretch his mouth as he recalled that the Hog's Head Inn was the only twenty-four-seven bar in the country. In other words...

Yep, Draco saw as they rounded around Gladrags Wizardwear. The only lighting and sounding seemed to hail from the other side of Hogsmead. Hog's Head Inn.

Harry heaved a breath before the store Gladrags Wizardwear. "You know, it's kind of funny there aren't any actual Aurors around."

"Kinda unfortunate, you mean." Harry made a confused noise. "We could've made this a real World Cup final sort of spectacle."

Harry snorted. "Well, that won't be happening. Wanna help me out with the Fiendfyre?"

Draco felt his eyes narrow. "Oh... _you're_ gonna do it?" he asked, his chest tight all of a sudden.

Harry blinked. "Yeah..."

"Oh..." His plan—his carefully concocted plan—was just—

"That way, you could 'Bludger me safe' when Andrew, Emily and "Blaise" appear."

"Right..." he said, voice strained voice, probably because of the clenched jaw. "But you've always been better at Defence, Harry—"

Harry smirked. "Aha! So you do admit it! Man, I've got to get this memory glassed up."

Draco growled. "Better do that swiftly."

"I'll be rapid."

"Anyway, I've got more control with Fiendfyre—"

"I beg to differ!" Harry protested.

Draco scrunched his face, whirled about to regain his composure and turned back to Harry after a really deep sigh. . "You're like a Beater when duelling, mate, I couldn't hope to compete with you."

Harry scowled at that. His eyes turned all flinty and his face hardened, but Draco knew...

And yes, there it was. They softened. And so did the scowl. Till there was something of a smirk... And then—

"Alright, fine!" Draco beamed and hurriedly gestured Harry away to the side, his hand, his body shaking as he brought his wand to his finger-tips.

He jabbed it, his wand, gave it a good twirl in a circle-like motion, and jabbed once more and then he gave his wand a sharp twist and thought, _Fera ignis iumentis_ , then suddenly, Draco gasped as liquid—warm liquid—rushed to his heart and his eyes blinked open ever so softly to a little tingle and the world seemed to just explode in a beautiful concoction of orange and red with black loitering at the sides and warmth—neither overwhelming nor too little just that perfect middle ground—and Draco, he could hardly help it, felt laughter ram past his throat and out his mouth.

And just a second later, this shuddering sound went off and before his eyes the wood that together made up Gladrags Wizardwear groaned and the buckled and caved in and toppled upon each other.

And a shiver—delightfully ticklish—went through him and stole his breath away as it left, leaving him panting and his skin hurting as his hair tried to run off.

He frowned and jerked his wand to the right. And then to the left and watched—slack-jawed—as the fire roared and imitated his hand-movement and his hair seemingly wilted and a cry whimpered out as it fell back onto his skin and that little delightful shudder went through him again and then his hands went all limp as he buckled on his feet and then suddenly this cackle seemed to envelope him.

Sweat had suddenly developed above his eye-brows and Draco cleaned it off with his eye-brows, his chest going rapidly up and then back down.

The fire suddenly seemed to spike up and give an almighty roar and Draco stumbled back in shock, and the warmth simply abandoned him.

Draco shook his head, stumbling for footing, and glanced around, blinking rapidly as the images moved.

Harry stood with his back to Draco, dancing around curses from Andrew, wearing this tight smile as he obviously tried his very best to play the unscrupulous bloke—he was failing badly much to Draco's amusement. Liza, however—probably because of her mad cackling—was having no such issue looking unscrupulous, she even went a goal further and ticked the absolutely barmy box, as well. Harry'd probably prefer it, as well, if her craziness didn't extend to her firing "Axelo" his way. Most people didn't favour bleeding eternally. Probably why Harry put up the "Fianto Duri" shield to eat up the Internal bleeding curse for him.

And then—much to Draco's disbelief and amazement—Andrew unleashed a "Duratus gelo kedaus". Harry must have also been surprised at the balls on Andrew because he didn't defect the Freezing Charm away until the last second this chap's—hold on, wasn't that Mr. Lupin?—way and the bloke crumbled above this girl who had apparently already fallen.

Before Draco could mentally congratulate Andrew for being ballsy enough to attack Harry with the Freezing Charm, a vicious, white light rippled through the sky and cut it's way towards Harry—who wisely side-stepped the curse—but the pace was all a bit too much for Andrew, who crumbled to the ground with a shriek.

Draco winced for Andrew but before he could bestow thought on further action, a sickening cold seemed to claw upon him, and Draco shivered, cocking his head all around in pursuit of the source.

He felt his breath hitch as his eyes focused on the Fiendfyre only to discover that a hole had opened up in the circle he'd created. He glanced around searching the cause of this catastrophe and then Emily came into his line of sight, sweat staining her red face, breathing all heavy and both hands clamped around her wand as she wrestled against the Fiendfyre.

Draco sneered at her and brandished his wand against her—

And then this tickling sensation suddenly grabbed him and lifted him from the ground and then darkness embraced him.

* * *

Pain spiked him in the head. "OW!"

Draco peeled his eyes open to meet the towering statue of Salazar Slytherin and let loose a relieved breath, his whole body untangling from tension.

And then Harry just seemed to pop into his line of sight, wearing this smirk, blocking out everything else and Draco let out a shriek.

Harry sneered at him, his eyes shining with mirth and then he walked out of Draco's range of sight, his footfall echoing loudly as he crossed the terrain of the Chamber of Secrets. Drcao slowly gathered himself to his feet, immediately clutching at his lower stomach as pain stabbed him there, and bending over.

"Mate, what was that for?" Draco heard someone complaining. It sounded like Theodore

"Half an hour, maybe...?" Yep, definitely Theodore.

And he'd been shut well and truly up.

"Can anyone tell me why my abdomen is conspiring to take me to an early grave?" Draco asked.

Fast—faster than his mind could compete with—Draco saw light flash across the Chamber and then a weight suddenly settled against his cheek, pushing it extraordinarily hard to the side and a rather ominous crack sounded.

Draco gasped. "Oi! What the fuck was that for?"

Harry came up to him, his face looking harder than Bludgers. Theodore was hovering behind Harry, massaging his shoulders—obviously Harry hadn't taken too kindly to having to go more than half an hour.

"Oh, I dunno, some Fiendfyre mishap maybe? Ring a fucking bell, Malfoy?"

Draco sank to his arse and raised his hands up. "Yeah, kinda, actually." A growl escaped Harry and a shiver went down Draco's spine. And he rushed to digress from his Fiendfyre "mishap". "Um, right, so like after I was knocked out—" Draco glared at Harry.

"You can take that up with Emily."

"Emily?"

Theodore nodded. "She's the one who used the lightning on you!"

Draco felt his jaw drop open. "She used _lightning_ on me."

"You're lucky it wasn't the AK!" Harry said—and he really seemed to mean it. And considering the way he was glaring at Harry, Draco wouldn't be surprised if Harry decided to rectify that.

"Right... Did the plan work though?"

"Well, the Hogs Head Inn faithful and Dumbledore's lackeys and Dumbledore, himself, by the way, got a big eye-full of me—"

"Hold on, Dumbledore was there?!"

Theodore nodded. "Yup, but the very moment he arrived, Harry apparated you and me— looking like Blaise obviously—here."

Harry run his hand through his hair. "Mate, I've gotta ask, though: Is Hogwarts always like this?"

"You have no idea..."


	13. At long last

**I know it's been a long while, guys! Hope you enjoy this chapter. I think the story's starting to take shape.**

* * *

Ginny glanced up at a poke in her waist. "Yeah?"

MacDougal was frowning at her in that way-too-familiar shitty Slytherin way—clipped, inspecting eyes that made her stomach bubble and make and her scalp prickle—but Ginny had gotten used to all shite as the years passed. "You're awfully quiet."

Ginny rolled her eyes and downed a glass of pumpkin juice. "Can't see how that could _possibly_ baffle you, really, MacDougal."

"It's Morag."

Ginny blinked. "Hmm?"

"Morag, Ginny. We've been friends for awhile now—"

"Two years," Ginny muttered under her breath.

MacDougal just gave off another of her trademark, elegant smiles and neatly tucked her dark, long hair behind her ear. "Just call me Morag, alright?"

Ginny sighed, raising her hands up in some sort of submission sign and gave her acquiescence in the form of a nod and MacDougal smiled. Ginny then feigned choking on her spite—in mocking of MacDougal, which was all the more sweet 'cause MacDougal looked to be considering murdering her.

At least it was—before MacDougal decided that really wasn't so bad of an idea and decided to club Ginny over the head with her wand.

Ginny waved her off, rubbing her throbbing skull softly, scowling at a beaming MacDougal.

Her scowl deepened even further when Burke sank into the bench right in front of her. Pain spiked her in the jaw as Burke flashed her his teeth, wagged a brow and then winked at her all in rapid succession and then she quickly unclenched her jaw, rubbing it softly as the pain slowly trickled out.

"Alright, Weasley?" Burke asked with that vile smirk of his that always allowed that hint of the hair in his nose to become visible.

Ginny ruthlessly drizzled her anger onto her disgust and it fizzled out without a peep. She glanced up coolly into Burke's face. "Before you arrived to defile my line of sight, yeah."

Burke scowled but before he could even open his mouth to reply, Harper's thin arm suddenly slinked around Burke's shoulder and his broomstick of a body came along with it as he sunk to a seat beside his mate. "Why, Weasley, we're ever so glad to see you, too."

Soft laughter went about, leaving Ginny scowling and she re-directed her anger into her meal, shoveling food into her mouth at a Ron-sequel pace.

"You keep on eating that much, you'll be napping in class." Ginny's arm fell limp on it's way to her mouth and she cocked her head about.

He looked awful. It was the very first thought that struck Ginny as her eyes observed him.

He'd been so... so _tan_ during the summer, his skin glistening strikingly and now his skin resembled white cheese. So patchy—and especially at his eyes—Ginny wouldn't have trouble believing they were peeling off.

And that—his eyes—was where the most disturbing picture was painted. They'd been dancing in the summer. Even when he'd been furious and raging at her, there'd been energy, those orbs had been so enthralling in the manner that they arrested a person with their beauty; they still did now, but now because there resided absolutely nothing in those orbs.

Even now, as his lips nudged each other, the right cheek taking up a proportional huge size of his lips compared to the left cheek as he smirked, his eyes barely glinted for just a second.

"Oi!" came a voice. And Ginny had to chuckle for she recognized it. "Some of us would like to enter the torturing chamber that is Transfiguration class with something in our stomachs."

"Hear, hear," went about right before elegant giggles, elegantly covered up with the palm sounded as well and Ginny couldn't help but snort in amusement.

Harry rolled his eyes and squeezed in between her and Nott, who was rivalling her bite for bite without even breaking a sweat. Malfoy forced himself between Harry and Nott—and Ginny immediately spotted a stray hair on Malfoy's head and felt her eye-brow shoot up as her eyes landed upon a yawning Nott.

Just as she was filling her plate for her third serving (expertly ignoring MacDougal's sideways glance and her narrowed eyes and lips), the owls flew right in.

Funnily enough, Ron seemed to have gotten himself a Howler, Ginny saw, situated safely over at the Slytherin table. Laughter filled the hall as they caught up, realizing what this meant. The younger ones were asking the older kids what was going on, and the older ones—somehow already having anticipated the question for their hands were already in their ears—were screaming for the first-years to cover their ears.

Ginny finally plugged her fingers into her ears, but then when Ron whirled about, a look of absolute horror on his face with some bacon still hanging out of his mouth, Ginny lost her strength to laughter.

Unfortunately, though, that Thomas boy jabbed at the Howler with his wand and it fluttered to pieces and a groan went through the school, the gamekeeper's booming laughter swiftly taking after it.

"Well," Nott was saying, and Ginny cocked her head around to observe the boy. He was busy with the newspaper and there was this urgency about him, like he really, really needed to take a piss—like really bad! She saw that Harry and Malfoy were watching Nott, as well.

He was probably talking to them to begin with either ways—she figured—so she turned her neck around and tried to close her ears to the rest of what he was saying.

She realized after awhile that MacDougal was quietly observing her, so she cocked a brow at her, and asked, "There a problem, MacDougal?"

MacDougal smirked and slowly shook her head.

Ginny sneered at the girl and rose to her feet. "Didn't think so." She whirled around and made her way to Potions class.

She always preferred being early to Potions class, rather than loitering around, counting on luck. Professor Snape had never—she thought of it more as yet, really—displayed his renowned loathing of the Weasleys towards her.

But Ginny wasn't one to patiently await action; she usually preferred to head into the battle, victory already well and truly secured, thank you very much.

Thankfully, Professor Snape already had the Potions classroom open and so Ginny didn't have to entertain Coote outside for too long droning on about how he thought this year he could become Gryffindor Chaser. Fucking Salazar, she definitely should've been much more of a bitch to the Gryffindors during her first year.

She cuckled. That would have been asking an astronomical lot, considering she had been called—on several occasions in her first year—a bitch.

"Amusing summer tales, Miss Weasley?"

Ginny glanced up from her desk, mind blank. Snape was smiling at her, gesturing to his personal quarters, and a yelp sounded from Coote—who was obviously not accustomed to having Snape display any teeth—and Ginny followed Snape into his chambers.

The doors slammed shut right after Ginny and she bloody did well to hide her gasp. Snape was still smiling though in that really creepy way—moron!

Ginny cleared up her face and looked him in the face. "Professor?"

"You're a hard person to get a hold of, Weasley." Snape hardly looked amused.

"I should think that'd please the Head of House to the cunning House."

"Oh, it does, you'll find." And yet, nothing on his face displayed even a hint of a smile, a chuckle, or even a snort. Ginny'd settle for anything that wasn't a sneer. "I hear you're good friends with Miss Zabini...?" It was a question.

But Ginny wasn't about to give in that easily. A little growl sounded from Snape when he realized that Ginny didn't intend to respond. "Ms. Weasley, are you friends with Miss Zabini?"

Ginny shrugged at her Head of House. "We're acquainted."

Snape nodded calmly, yet a brow rose just a bit before returning back to it's normal position. "I thought it might interest you to know then that she may currently be in possession of the Dark Lord and his forces."

Ginny felt the wind flow out of her and she needed a couple of breaths to steady herself.

Snape was still looking at her with those dead beetle black eyes, absolutely neutral expression—and for once, Ginny was pleased to see it.

"It happened late last night—"

"Late last night? But—"

"Save your questions, Ms. Weasley, for when I have concluded the tale. I find that most conundrums that tickle the teenage mind can be relieved by but a trickle of patience, and I scarcely doubt, Ms. Weasley, that your questions falls within the minority percentage."

Ginny scowled at Snape, eyes narrowed and found her mind suddenly plotting his very painful and satisfying death. Inferno seemed highly plausible, really.

"Ms. Weasley, we are unaware as to why the Dark Lord would have any—"

"Why do you call him the Dark Lord? I thought only His followers called him that."

Snape cocked a brow and a disgusted sneer crossed his lips. "Why is it, Ms. Weasley, that blood is so thick that it can contaminates adequate vessels like yourself?"

Ginny felt her breath quicken, heard it, really, as it began to ram out of her mouth. "I asked first!"

Snape tsked. "Manners, Ms. Weasley, never forget them! Does the term "ladies first" levitate a broomstick somewhere underneath those thick, ginger bangs?"

Ginny drank in a breath, and said—eyes still closed—"It doesn't matter, Professor," she ground out. "Would you please continue with your tale?"

"It is at it's tail, actually, Weasley. Dumbledore himself was present to witness the kidnapping—"

"Were you?"

For the very first time, Professor Snape's face formed an expression that actually communicated something to Ginny. The question baffled him.

"I'm sorry..."

"Were you present, as well... Professor?"

And just like that, his face was unreadable again. "Indeed. I was among a small taskforce tasked with retrieving the Zabini heiress; however her kidnappers performed the kidnapping with notable skill and speed."

The bell sounded.

And Professor Snape jabbed his wand, and a sound went off as the door creaked open. Snape stood beside the door and gestured for her to leave. Chest heaving, Ginny obeyed him, eyes heavy—but staunchly defiantly being hefted—back across to her desk.

"And Ms. Weasley," Snape called from the classroom doorway. "Do try to keep your tears in. They don't help Zabini—and they certainly don't help you!" Snape pulled the door in, and the rest of the students trickled in.

* * *

"So, Harry," Albus began, "how are you liking Hogwarts?"

A week in, Albus figured, was more than enough time for the boy to draw some conclusions.

Harry shrugged back at him, lounging in the visitor's seat before Albus. "Better than I expected, I suppose."

Albus cocked a brow, silently asking the boy to elaborate but all he got was a raised brow in return. Albus chuckled to mask his irritation and leaned back in his seat.

"I'm glad, Harry." Albus dug for a Lemon Drop, expertly unwrapped it and began sucking on it, his body sagging as the tension flowed out of him. "I hear you've made some friends..."

Harry smirked at him. "You've heard correctly, Headmaster."

Albus nodded. "Good, good..." He reached for another toffee. "How do you find the difficulty of your classes?"

Harry sighed, his eyes rolling in his sockets. "My honest opinion, Dum—sir?" Albus tensed at the near slip-up but nodded and responded, "Your honest opinion will do, I believe."

Harry shrugged at Albus, slouching in his seat, a little. "I'm not being troubled in the least."

Albus nodded. He'd suspected as much. The boy's teachers had communicated as much. He picked up yet another toffee, chuckling at Harry's raised eyebrow. "You must be curious as to why I called for you, Harry...?"

Harry shrugged at him. "I figured you'd tell me soon enough," he said, giving Albus an expectant glance.

Albus chuckled and swallowed the last of the Lemon Drop in his mouth. "Do you recall, Harry, when I apprised you of Voldemort's current state?"

Harry frowned, leaning forward, grabbing at the table. "You mean when you said he's immortal?"

Albus felt his chest tighten. He nodded.

"Yes, Harry!"

Harry blinked at him, and again, and again. And then finally, "Well, I'm glad you only decided to waste a week."

Albus chuckled. "I thought it'd be prudent to give your time to settle."

Harry rolled his eyes at Albus. "Sure you did. So, how's this gonna work out? You gonna teach me some new spells?"

"Among others..." Harry scowled at that. Albus propped his elbows unto his table, leaning forward, as urgency overtook him. "Defeating a Dark Lord, Harry, is no fly around the village. It is dangerous, murky, business."

"Well, good thing we're both well versed in the art, then, eh?"

Albus brushed the sarcasm off with practiced ease. Dealing with petulant children for the better part of a century taught one certain skills. "Can you tell me, Harry, why I was able to defeat Grindewald?"

Harry rolled his eyes, sagging in his seat. "You were more powerful than him...?"

Albus sighed. "Whilst that undoubtedly played a role—minor as it was—the main reason was how well I knew Grindewald," Harry was clearly surprised by that revelation but Albus didn't stop to offer more information on the touchy topic. "You see, should you know your opponent well, Harry—you can predict his moves and always stay one step ahead of him."

Harry was nodding at Albus, regarding him with something akin to respect. It was the first time Harry had fixed Albus with that particular expression and Albus couldn't help but chuckle. "I see you're impressed."

Harry shrugged. "Never thought about it like that."

Albus nodded. "I hadn't expected you to." Albus rose to his feet and made his way to his Pensieve. "Come, follow me. I think it's time I introduce you—or better said, re-introduce you—to a one, Tom Marvolo Riddle."

For some reason, Harry really seemed to find that funny.

* * *

"So, let me get this straight!" Theodore was pacing up and about the room, a quill and parchment in hand, and unease holding him by the balls. "You-Know-Who's immortal...?"

Harry made a noise of agreement and pushed his pawn forward, rubbing his hands in anticipation for the checkmate that was surely but a move or two away.

"You know I still can't believe we have this place all to ourselves," Draco said, taking a look around, looking a bit too cool—considering the blondie was inches away from dropping his first chess game to Harry in years.

"Not really, Malfoy, there's not a whole lot of attraction sites here on the Fourth floor, you know."

Draco shrugged and carried his knight away—leaving his last pawn unprotected. Harry felt his jaw drop. "Yeah, but still—all of this, for us, come on!" he exclaimed, gesturing about with his arms spread out.

He did have a point. It wasn't much, no. But it was more than enough. It was large enough to hold a get-together with little strain. And the three of them were competent enough to conjure sofas. It was very convenient, really—in all ways. Well, except the fact that getting inside required jumping though a mirror.

Harry pushed his pawn forward and had his pawn exchanged for a queen. "Check, bitch!"

Draco chuckled and dragged his rook all the way back home, covering up his king.

"Guys—enthralling as your chess game undoubtedly is—" Theodore said, his words dripping with sarcasm. "We have much more pressing issues than who is better at chess."

Harry sighed. "Like?"

He'd startled Theodore into silence. It'd take a couple of seconds, tops—but that'd be more than enough time for Harry. He ended up nudging his remaining bishop towards Draco's queen, well aware that Draco's queen wouldn't be able to gobble up his bishop—for that'd leave his king defenseless.

Draco sighed and glanced up into Harry's smirking face. "Not bad, Potter." Theodore roared.

And then, right there, before Harry's very eyes, the chess pieces flew into the air, and scattered to the ground, the chess board going to the ground with a dull clatter.

Harry found his neck turning towards Theodore, mouth still hanging open.

Theodore harrumphed, pocketing his wand. " _Now_ that I have your attention." Draco guffawed.

Harry's mouth was still hanging open, he realized, and he shut it right up. "You have _got_ to be fucking kidding me, Theo!"

Theodore shrugged. "Not even in the slightest." The boy crossed his arms across his shoulders, looking into Harry defiantly.

Harry was so gob-smacked, so surprised, so shocked that he just stood there, looking into Theodore's defiant expression, eyes bugging out, limbs limp all of a sudden. "I cannot believe this!" he muttered to himself, running a hand through his hair.

"Yeah, well, _mate_ , believe it 'cause it happened. Your three year winless streak continues till—"

Harry sent a stinging hex Theodore's way, watched Theodore calmly side-step the curse, looking almost bored, and gave his wand a little sharp, zig-zag and thought hard, Aegrum.

Theodore obviously recognized the sickly yellow hue of the mild torture curse for he immediately conjured up water to devour the curse for him—

But Harry had totally anticipated that, and roared out, "Baubilous" and watched in delight as lightning grabbed a hold of Theodore mid-air and hurled him across the room into the stone walls.

Draco laughed.

Harry smirked.

Theodore stumbled to his feet, looking less than amused as he wiped a smudge of blood from his lips. "Funny, really, that you can afford this amount of energy into hexing your "friends"—he spat it out so venomously Harry was taken aback—"and yet Blaise remains at Versace DHQ and you've yet to visit her; You-Know-Who's bloody immortal—like the bastard can't be killed—"

"Believe it or not, Theodore, we actually do know what 'immortal' means." Draco sounded scathing but Harry couldn't really blame him for that.

"Oh, my mistake," Theodore said sarcastically. "D'you perhaps also know what an immortal Voldemort spells for the rest of us, Draco? Here's a hint: death!"

"Oi!" Draco jumped to his feet, his normally pale skin blistering red as fury overtook him. "Don't come spewing this "I-care-more" bullshit on us, mate. Harry here's an orphan—never even got to see his parents, you see. Mine were taken before my very eyes this summer—" Harry grimaced.

"Blaise had no choice, Malfoy, you know that!" Theodore interrupted, looking to Harry for support, who cringed and shrugged back.

"Don't give a fuck, mate! What I'm getting at is—we've all been getting it pretty deep in the arse, except you, by the way so I don't—"

"He killed them!"

That gave Harry pause. Theodore sounded so heartbroken, so... unlike his normal composed, tranquil self. "Killed who? Who killed who?"

"You-Know-Who! He killed my mom. And my dad. Just got the letter today." And now the tears fell down his cheek.

Harry and Draco exchanged a glance. "So sorry, mate." Draco nodded, looking a bit sheepish now.

"But what d'you mean about your mom? I thought she died few years after you were born." Harry frowned at Draco, wondering where his renowned tact had taken flight off to.

Theodore took a deep breath. "She did. But... but Voldemort promised to resurrect her with this ritual he'd made himself, and I... I believed him—he sounded so confident, you know." Theodore looked into Harry's face, tears shining and his whole face one gigantic mess and Harry nodded at him, his friend.

Voldemort—the little fucker—really could be a hella convincing, sometimes.

"He... he demanded... he said... betray you guys—work for, you know, Death-Eaters." Theodore glanced to the ground. "He said how my parents had served him and like obviously I'd be good at it and shite—" He couldn't seem to go on, the poor bloke.

"He resurrected her, you know. I got to see her... during the summer. Twice. Just a taste, you know—"

"So you betrayed us?" Draco cut in sharply.

Theodore glanced to the ground. "I had no choice."

Harry felt a stone drop in his stomach and he closed his eyes and heaved a huge breathe.

"I'm so sorry, Harry."

Draco raised his arms in the air, wearing a sneer. "Never said you did, just think it's a bit rich that I'm hearing all this shite from a traitor."

Theodore scowled. "And what would you have done, Malfoy, if you'd been riding my broomstick?"

"Wouldn't have sucked Voldy's balls, that's for sure."

"I didn't even do anything—"

"Stop!"

Draco scowled—obviously not pleased—but heeded Harry.

"Listen, this sucks balls—"

Draco snorted. "Big balls," he interjected. Harry and Theodore reserved a glare for the boy.

"But this didn't change anything. Figg is... Figg is gone! And... she's not coming back. And even though it hurts that you had something to do with that, Theo, I'm glad that your arse is still here to help us take down Voldemort."

Theodore blinked at him in shock. "Thank you!" he whispered. He sank back into his seat, seemingly hugely relieved.

"And Theo, the next time I learn you're holding such large secrets from us, I'm gonna be holding something large away from you." Harry glanced down into Theodore's private area and the boy seemed to get the hint, his cheeks flushing.

"Now, what the hell did you have in mind? Or did you just feel like ruining my chess game?"

* * *

Harry run a frustrated hand through his hair.

This was perhaps the daftest plan he'd ever been involved in. And that was saying a whole lot.

Theft was admittedly relatively highly situated on his list of expertise, but he wasn't quite accustomed to taking the fall. Harry did suck satisfaction off Andrew's reaction when Theodore had forced his role down his throat.

Harry glanced over his shoulder, to ascertain one last time that nobody was on his tail. The Marauders Map indicated nobody was. Ginerva Weasley was a floor below, on the Second floor, and the rest of the prefects seemed to view the Sixth and Seventh Floors as suspicious for some reason. Seemed Draco had come true, he thought to himself, as he rolled up the Map and stuffed it into his pockets.

He began making his towards the Defence Against the Dark Arts, a smirk decorating his face as he recalled his brief duel with Snape earlier that day. Snape had been smart, really, to cut the duel short; Harry'd been trying his all to embarrass the Defence Against the Dark Arts Professor.

A prickle stabbed him in the back, and the hair on his skin suddenly stretched out, standing up and a noise developed in his ear. Harry ambled ahead calmly, without any outward expression of distress. He waited, straining and catching the sound of soft footfalls building slowing louder. Someone was trying to catch up with him. Female, he was guessing what with those light footfalls.

Harry swaggered down to the Defence Against the Dark Arts classroom, and then spun around sharply. "Done stalking me, Weasley?"

A gasp sounded, and suddenly Ginerva popped into sight, frowning. "How did you know it was me?"

Harry shrugged and leaned against the door. She scowled. "Not gonna answer, huh? Well here's another question for ya, Potter: What're you doing out after curfew?" She leaned into him, and Harry could see the fire cackling in her eyes.

Harry chuckled. "I could ask you the same, Ginerva."

"Don't call me that!"

Harry faked a frown. "Isn't that your name? What else should I call you but your name?"

"Ginny—like every-freaking-body does."

Harry smirked and run a hand through his hair. "Dunno if you've really noticed, Ginerva—" She scowled and growled; Harry chuckled—"but the rules don't really apply to me. So run along; I've got things to do, now, you see. And little girls like yourself aren't invited. Shame, really!"

She pointed at a pin above her breasts. "I'm a prefect, you know, Potter. I could make your life a whole lot of hell if you keep on talking to me like that."

Harry closed the gap between them and looked at her right in her eyes. He could clearly hear her running heart, the droplets of sweat running across her forehead, the small pant on her lips, her erect tight, red nipples threatening to pop out of her dress. He leaned towards her ear, and whispered, "I'd love to go to hell with you, Weasley."

She gasped and that was all Harry needed. He placed his right hand on her arse and squeezed—and a little thrill went through him as she squealed and her eyes flew open and the fire in her eyes focused on him—and with his other hand, he lifted her up, spun her around against the Defence Against the Dark Arts classroom door and in one swift move, shut her mouth up with his lips.

She pushed him away, and he heard something that sounded vaguely like a, "No!" but his head was all hazy now, and he couldn't see much now apart from her and Harry grabbed at her, squeezed her breast and a noise escaped him. He brought his lips back to hers, and a thrill went through him again as a moan sounded.

He dug—frantically—in his pocket for his wand, and when he finally did find it, Ginerva's soft hand closed around his cock and he fumbled the wand. She giggled and the sound tickled him and now, he was laughing as well as she bent down to the ground to pick it up, her skirt tightening up and the front of his trousers tightened up, as well, and he pulled his trousers down a bit; it'd become uncomfortably tight down there.

And, finally, the click sounded as the door gave way and Harry hefted her above his shoulders—she laughed—and this time thankfully, there was no protest as he rammed his tongue past hers against the wall, and explored her body with his hands.

In fact, she enthusiastically reciprocated—hurriedly getting rid of his shirt and peppering his chest with little ticklish kisses. Harry's legs gave out and he now found himself panting above the teacher's desk as she climbed on top of him. She played idly with his chest-hair and with her free hand frantically worked at his trousers.

He threw his head back and groaned as his trousers came off and her palms closed around his manhood. A thrill went through him and he shuddered a little. "Gin, Gin..."

She paused for a second to give him a devilish smirk and then her mouth closed around his manhood, and he just sank to the table as ripples of pleasures just rammed him hard.

Up and down, she bobbed over him, and soon, his feet were shaking as the pressure built up within him and he couldn't seem to control his breaths anymore and a whirring sound began building up in his head and in his ear.

He let out a growl and reached out wildly for her hair, and she gasped in surprise as he—in one swift motion—turned her around and smirked down upon her.

She blinked furiously up at him. "My turn!" he said and then he claimed her lips.

He trailed his lips along her lips and patiently helped her remove her top until her perky, red breast were poking his very own chest. Harry took a moment to admire the sight, squeeze at it a little to satiate his curiosity and he moaned at the sensation—

She laughed, a little fire dancing in her eyes and Harry collected her breasts in his mouth and sucked a little and now she was the moaning, her head thrown back—

And Harry—encouraged—brought up his free hand to massage her free breast and twiddled with it a bit. Harry trailed his free hand down along her stomach, enjoying the tickling sensation he got as her moans ascended in decibels. He tugged a little at her trousers but it was a bit too tight to pull off so effortlessly. So he brought his other hand down, making sure to compensate with extra sucking and kisses on the breasts—and pulled her trousers clean off.

It was such a glorious sight, situated right in the middle of it all.

Perhaps he stared to long—but Ginerva closed her eyes, hands around her breasts, something resembling uncertainty flirting about in her eyes.

Harry smiled and re-captured her lips with his and took up her breast in his palm once more. He made sure to kiss her nice, long and slow—ease her into it. And it seemed to work—she'd slacked up a bit and she was kissing him back now.

He trailed his free hand along her waist line, squeezed her arse one good time—and chuckled as she gasped as that—and then settled on the little spot between her thighs.

Her eyes flew open—a lovely mixture of alarm and excitement. And Harry felt something warm and wet drip down onto his finger and he smirked. He prodded at it a bit—and then, encouraged by her increasingly louder, and sharper moans—he began massaging at it—

And then he rammed straight clean through with one finger as curiosity overwhelmed him. A different—harder—sort of moan escaped Ginerva and Harry felt some warmth engulf him and thrust back in, a bit harder. And again.

And—

Her palm closed around his wrist and her nails dug into his skin. "Now! Please!"

Harry blinked, gulped. "You sure?" She nodded and Harry sighed, bent down to kiss her. He massaged his shaft a bit and then began positioning her on her back with her legs spread out—and the sight was enough to flail his cock and he realized immediately that he was already on the verge.

He gulped and slowly situated himself next to her—and then grabbed a hold of it, and slowly, positioned himself inside.

It was hot—no, warm in there. It was like a volcano that engulfed you when you'd been freezing seconds before.

Harry felt his whole body freeze up as he looked down into Ginerva. She'd closed her eyes but it was her scrunched up expression that pierced at him.

He pushed in deeper with his hips and now, there was a little bit of room to push in and pull out of.

Friction began working as he pulled out and thrust back in. Repeatedly.

His pants became more defined and she wrapped her arms around his shoulders as his head gave complete way to fog and his vision darkened out except for Ginerva beneath him.

In and out, he went—and his body tightened up and he clasped his hands around her hips and his other hand around her hair, trying to ground himself so he could enjoy even more—

But then Ginerva wracked her hips forward and he lost control in that one second and fell right smack above Ginerva, both of them breathing heavy and tangled in his sticky cum.

They were silent, for awhile—and really, Harry hoped it'd stay that way. He had no idea what he could possibly say to Ginerva now. Well, except from—"Like to try this again, sometime?"

He doubted that'd get him an appealing response.

He glanced down into Ginerva and deduced that she'd fallen to sleep. He smirked at that, watching her as her brows scrunched together and her lips widened. He frowned, though, as she opened her thighs up and enclosed them around his hips, almost locking him up.

Harry let out a breath, and was wondering just how the hell he was gonna escape this when he felt his blood run cold and his whole body went numb.

"Bloody hell, Drake's gonna murder me!"

He'd totally forgotten about the ploy. One-hundred-percent. He drank in deep, desperate breaths—

And Ginerva groaned and wrapped her thighs even tighter around his hips, pushing his flaccid cock even deeper into his own cum. He run a hand through his hair, and pried lightly at her thighs.

It didn't budge much—and Ginerva whined and groaned much.

Harry gave a sigh and tried again with the same results.

He glanced down at Ginerva, allowing his eyes to devour her once more as his hands enclosed around her legs—and in one swift motion, disentangled them from his hips.

For a second, nothing happened.

And then wriggled her bum into the desks, flailing her legs about and she groaned. Finally, however, she went limb seconds after and Harry let out a relieved breath.

He frantically began looking for his trousers—which had somehow managed to land itself on a stool at the very back of the class—and his shirt (which Ginerva seemed to have confused as a pillow). Harry summoned his wand wordlessly and conjured up an actual pillow for Ginerva and pushed it underneath her hand, smiling as she wriggled into it, a smile on her face.

And then Harry dashed out of the classroom. He dug into his pocket for the Marauders Map, thanking Merlin that there was only one of these. Andrew seemed to jump right off the map, screaming into him—even though the boy was just stalking the Slytherin Dungeons.

Liza'd made it to the school, as well—and she seemed to be making her way down to the Kitchens. Harry snorted at that. They didn't actually think he'd abandoned the ploy for food, now, did they?

He shrugged. All possibilities were probably laid out on the table, weren't they?

Draco and Theodore were actually the ones most on his heels. They were literally on the corridor to his left and before Harry could formulate anything of a plan, the two seething pure-bloods blared into sight.

"So, Potter—"

"Wanna tell us why the fuck we're all in detention and your arse is just ambling across Hogwarts?"

"Detention?" Well, that ain't too bad, innit?

Draco scowled. "Four months. Till next freaking year."

Harry gulped. Obviously, Draco had corrected that underlying tone in his statement. "Like... like what happened?"

Draco jabbed his wand at Harry. "I'll tell you what happened, Potter—"

"Andrew and Liza did their part at Hogsmead—"

"And Emily?" Harry interrupted Theodore.

He waved a dismissive, impatient hand. "She did fantastic aiding Andrew like we'd planned—"

"But "Bella" still managed to get away, right?"

"Of course—funnily enough, Dumbledore wasn't away from his office for too long, Harry; care to tell us why that is?"

"Did you guys at least get some of the memories?"

"You answer first!"

"I met up with Snape!"

The two stared into him incredulously and he felt his berth turn all bubbly under their intense scrutiny. "Funny, because we just saw Snape 'bout a half-hour ago."

"Yeah but... but he bested me like an hour ago—"

"Harry!"

"He got me from behind with this cutting curse—"

"If you don't wanna tell us, Harry, that's fine—just don't lie to us," Draco said softly.

Harry sighed. "Let's just go to bed, yeah? It's already three, isn't it?"

Draco didn't look too happy with that. Theodore was his usual, uncaring self. "We're gonna go ahead and round Andrew and Liza up."

"Fine."

Draco help his hand out. "The map."

Harry handed it over, and bade them goodnight. It was only when he'd muttered, "Merlin!" and the stone wall paved way to the Slytherin Dungeons that he skidded to a stop, realizing just what he'd done.

"Fuck! They're gonna find Ginerva. Bloody hell!"

Harry run a frustrated hand through his hair and began pacing the length of the Dungeon. In the end, he figured there was precious little he could do about it. At this point, they'd probably already pin-pointed her on the map and got all the answers they needed outta her.

"Damn!"

Harry made his way to the dormitory, figuring he was gonna need some serious sleep tp think up a way to deal with all the bullshit he could expect to come his way over the next few days.

 **What do y'all think?**


	14. Polluted Progress

**Author's note: Sorry for the long wait, fellas. High-school had me by the balls!**

* * *

"Trouble in paradise with you and Potter, Draco?"

It was Pansy, and Draco could hardly not notice that her shirt was only loosely buttoned.

He felt confusion tickle his insides but he roughly shoved it down, and forced a chuckle he was hardly feeling. "Sodding _Draco_ , again, is it?!"

Pansy rolled her eyes, and slid into the seat next to him. Draco cocked his neck around, and shrugged at Theodore's questioning look. 'Naughty-boy' snarled and plumped down next to Greengrass—who scowled but didn't make a peep about the arrangments.

Pansy sighed and massaged his shoulders, leaning in. "Yes, _Draco_." Draco stiffened at her warm breath tickling his ears. "I'm free tonight, you know..." Draco glanced at her sharply and she coolly cocked a brow at him, and wagged a brow, teasing him.

Draco glanced away and feigned interest as Flitwick went off on what he expected from them this year.

This was most unexpected.

Most unexpected.

Draco'd figured his actions over the summer had rendered his true allegiance common knowledge. And it probably was—judging from the reception he'd received in the Dungeons and, especially, on the train ride here.

Why, even Slughorn had actually sent out an invitation to the Slug Club! That had been quite the slap in the face. Ey mate, here's a treat for getting your parents killed—you can join the fucking Slug Club. Simply bril, that.

So—just what the bloody hell was Pansy playing at?

Draco grabbed Pansy by her arm, and she gave a moan of pain, her eyes flashing wildly. "What're you up to, Parkinson?" he asked as the two grouped around their mug.

All around them, shouts of "Aguamenti" went off and screams went off right after—

"Non-verbally!" Flitwick squeaked out. "And it's more of a worm-like hand-movement, actually, Mr. Weasley!"

Pansy frowned down at the mug—purposely biting her lips, he was sure!—as she wrenched her arm away from him. "Dunno what you're on about, Draco. Do I really deserve this treatement, now, d'you think?" She glanced up at him, pouting—rubbing her arm.

"Don't give me this garbage, Parkinson!" he hissed back at her.

She went ahead and actually had the nerve to try looking hurt, and it really became a toss-off, of sorts, whether he was gonna curse her magically or verbally for Draco.

"You've always been brilliant at Charms, Draco—why don't you have a go?" she offered, taking a step back.

It was just, as well, because Draco had been thinking up the most creative "adjustments" he could discreetly make to the girl's appearance.

Draco frowned down at the mug and gave his wand a sharp jab to the bottom, wiggling his wand all the way back to the top, and then he thought hard, _Aguamenti_.

An icy blue streak of light sprinted out of his wand into the mug—and just like that, the mug was full with water.

"Oh, well done, Mr. Malfoy! Take ten points! Keep on trying, Ms. Parkinson; Make sure to start from the bottom of the mug, Mr. Nott—you were very close... Oh, well done, Ms. Granger, take five points!"

Draco rolled his eyes at the huge grin that overcame Granger. He sneered at her as her eyes landed on him, making sure to silently communicate how unimpressed he was with her—and he felt his heart tingle with warmth as her beam faltered and she averted her eyes.

Pansy snarled as she fumbled yet another attempt at the Water-Making-Charm grabbing Draco's attention. "However did you make it to N.E.W.T. Charms, Pans?" He smirked as she gasped.

Pansy glanced around, looking furious—but of course nobody had heard him. It was one of the reasons why Charms was his second—well, favourite, now!—class at Hogwarts. One could make plans, hex, curse, or enchant someone without anyone the wiser what with of all the shouting going around. Though, it was rather odd that it was still the case considering it was suppose to be non-verbal casting but Draco wasn't gonna get his knickers in a twist about all of that.

"Never mind that!" Pansy—obviously noticing that Flitwick was a tad pre-occupied with MacMillan and Longbottom, who seemed to have properly fucked up their mug—dropped to her chair, looking tired already.

Draco chuckled. "You do realize it's just the first period?"

"Well then, Draco, what's your advice for Potter over there?"

Harry seemed one-hundred-percent out of it. He'd laid his head on the table, and his eyes were shut full close and his chest was rising up and down. Clocked out, for sure.

Draco shrugged. "He's done with his, though..."

Pansy scowled. "What happened between the two of you?"

"None of your business," said Draco with an eye roll. "Go stick your nose somewhere else, yeah?"

"So, something did happen, then?"

Draco just sighed and ignored her for the duration of Charms class.

She was right, though.

Things between him and Harry were... awkward—to say the least!

Harry vehemently insisted that Snape'd indeed got him with a cutting curse—and he'd most certainly _not_ abandoned them _on purpose_ —but Draco wasn't so dense not to recognize that bollocks for what it was.

Snape was good, yeah. He could wipe the floor with Draco. But Harry...

Harry was insane!

Draco shook his head, as memories ran past his eyes.

His creativity, extensive knowledge of curses, jinxes, and hexes—and most of all, his unbelievable reactions... By Merlin, the lad'd gone toe to toe with the friggin' Dark Lord.

Draco snorted.

And then he had the nerve to feed him this bullshit about Snape getting one up over him.

And—as if that wasn't enough—Harry'd actually driven the drivel further down the track, showing off an admittedly nasty-looking gash across his torso.

Theodore'd ate up all the bullshit, right there. And Draco did grudgingly admit to himself that things did look pretty fucking legit and all—he just couldn't shake this feeling... this niggling feeling that something, somewhere just didn't add up.

The bell rang.

"Five inches of the advantages, disadvantages, and uses of the Water-Making Charm. To be presented by the next class. Extra points if you can tell me about the wand-movements and how to actually do the Charm, of course."

Draco quickly bent down and collected his things and dashed out of the classroom, tailing Harry from afar. He was going to find out for himself just what Harry had swept under the rug—the bastard!

Of course, there was always a good chance that the whole thing went to the dogs—it was Harry bloody Potter, after all. The guy was very highly sensitive to magic—as if he didn't have enough magical abilities to begin with, the twat!

The good news was they were at Hogwarts—where there was so much magic in the atmosphere that it should be able to properly mask his magic as he kept tabs on Harry.

That was the plan, anyway.

"Going up, then," Draco muttered to himself and drew Harry's invisibility cloak.

* * *

Supper found Harry in a right foul mood.

Ginerva was doing a pretty fucking good job avoiding him. She'd spent three weeks carefully stepping around him at every turn.

To be fair, though, Harry hadn't put in all too much effort into cornering her the first week. He figured she was just playing hard to get, and if he just chased for a few more days, she'd break down.

The fact that Draco, especially, seemed hyper-alert these days, his eyes burning into any and everybody Harry went up to talk to or came up to talk to him.

It was really lucky, really, that Draco and Theodore had detention every-fucking-night—it was the only thing that Snape had done so far that Harry actually appreciated—but after the first three days, Snape started giving Draco and Theodore off to Filch which meant that the two had been skiving off detention and planting memories of them actually doing the detentions every night in the squib's head.

It was brilliant on their part, no doubt about it—but also a fair bit of karma because Harry was actually the one who'd thrown them that idea, but that had been a couple of years ago.

It also meant that Harry hadn't made any actual fucking progress with cornering Ginerva. And now, it'd been three weeks since he'd actually gone ahead and stuffed her. Three weeks and nothing'd changed.

Harry made sure to pack the Map along today—Ginerva had the first two hours off on Wednesdays, see, and Harry fully intended to put an end to this whole cat-and-mouse game skirting shite that they were playing with each other.

At least, that had been the plan.

Before Ginerva had actually gone ahead and disappeared right off the Map on the seventh floor. Harry had been pretty fucking sure his eyes were just playing tricks on him.

But then there was indeed nobody on the seventh floor when Harry climbed his ass up there.

He'd been far from pleased.

Plus, somebody'd been tailing him all day—he was fucking sure of it!

There'd been this buzz tingling around him, all freaking day, and even though all his detection charms had yielded forth naught, Harry was still convinced that someone had spent his day following Harry!

Probably Albus fucking Dumbledore—Harry figured the Headmaster was the only person inside the castle who could one-up Harry.

It hadn't been the best of days for Harry—so he'd come in to supper looking to get in a quick meal and be out of there as soon as possible. Preferaby before anybody noticed just how pissed off he was.

Theodore made sure to shite all over _that plan_ the moment he saw Harry making his way down to the table.

"In a bit of a tizzy, are you?"

Harry didn't reply. He just scowled and got on serving himself.

Theodore huffed. "Fine—would you at least tell me why Drcao stormed off to? Nobody's seen hide nor hair of him since Charms."

Harry shrugged and got started on dinner.

That was thankfully more than enough of a hint for Theodore because he didn't have any more questions for Harry.

Obviously, not everyone could be as observant as Theodore—it was a right shame.

"Oi, Potter—I hear you sent Weasley to the Hospital Wing today; what'd he do to you?"

"Exist, and he's a right lucky bastard—he's still got his bits, doesn't he?" Harry growled back to the fifth-year who'd asked him across the table. "You'll find yourself in the Hospital Wing, as well, soon enough—if you don't shut it right about now! And you'll definitely not have your bits to show for it—I assure you!"

The fifth-year's eyes bugged out as people shifted nervously in their seats all around, warily keeping an eye out on proceedings as chatting kinda stalled. But then, the fifth-year obviously got it into his skull that he couldn't afford to take such an embarrassment, and decided to sit up and actually try looking Harry in the fucking eye.

"Is that a threat?"

Harry didn't even respond, just raised a brow—but after awhile, the boy was a blushing mess.

The table was rather lively that night. Well, in comparison to how dull it usually was—which Harry wouldn't have particularly minded.

It wasn't to be, though. By the time dessert rolled around, chat was pretty heavy all around him and Harry was gritting his teeth together, trying to calm himself but he just ended up coming back to hexes to use...

"So, Potter, play Quidditch?"

It was this boy that Harry vaguely remembered to be in Ginerva's year. She'd complained about him once—or twice... He hadn't really been paying attention at the time. His eyes had been somewhere else.

Harry sighed.

Ginerva...

Funny, she hadn't made it to supper either.

"Mr. Potter."

 _Well, well, if it isn't the esteemed Headmaster..._ "Headmaster." Harry's cool reply seemed to confuse the Slytherins, and whispers exploded around him, narrowed eyes watching the exchange.

"If you would please accompany me to my office..."

Harry raised a brow. They'd had a Riddle meeting just yesterday and Dumbledore, himself, had told Harry—in no uncertain terms—that he could hold those meetings but once a week.

"Can I finish my treacle-tart?"

"Really, Harry?!" Theodore hissed in his ear.

A twinkle went off in Dumbledore's eyes.

Harry sneered at Theodore and rose to his feet, following the Headmaster out of the Hall, the whispers somehow steadily growing louder until Harry whirled about and leveled a glare at the entirety of the Hall, hovering between the doorway—and, for that one second, it was blissfully quiet and then the gamekeeper laughed his booming laugh and everyone seemed to take it as a cue to speak again.

Imbeciles!

Harry tried to wriggle information out of Dumbledore before they made it to his office. But Dumbledore remained tight-lipped about what this was all about. Instead, the Headmaster decided to use their walk to work on his whistling skills.

And somehow they didn't end up in Dumbledore's office but right outside the Hogwarts gates, Harry prickling from confusion.

"What's the meaning of this, Headmaster?"

Dumbledore just carried on whistling—obviously keeping Harry abreast of things was rather low on the Headmaster's list of priorities!

They came to a stop before Hog's Head Inn, and Harry took the opportunity to have a look around; after all, he hadn't been to Hogsmead since they'd staged the whole "Death-Eater kidnapping" thing—it'd been what? three weeks, already, hadn't it?

The ashes that were under Gladrags Wizardwear looked untouched. Harry winced at that. He knew Mrs. Gladrags, the hag that owned the store; she had enough issues, already, and he figured her losing her store wasn't exactly helping matters. Harry made a mental note to send her a neat donation one of these days.

Harry hoped she could be back up in about a month—just in time for Halloween. Fucking hell, September had gone by quick, hadn't it?

Dogweed and Deathcap, as well, looked like it'd never return to it's glory days. But Harry didn't mind that much. Of course, Blaise was gonna be devastated when she found out that her favourite store had been burnt to the ground; after all, where else could you purchase poisons without any age-restriction on the Isles? But Harry figured she'd have much more pressing issues once she finally awoke from her coma.

Andrew claimed she was doing better. Even though he'd hardly sounded convincing over the Mirror talk they'd had yesterday, Harry was feeling a tad bolstered.

Of course, Draco had dismissed it as pure garbage but the Malfoy heir had been in a right foul mood lately; Theodore said it was the boy's "time of the month"! Harry was inclined to agree.

The others seemed to have made it right back to their previous state, which really wasn't so surprising. Madam Pudifoot's Tea Shop was mad popular so it stood to reason, really, that she'd managed to get her store up and running again so quickly.

It was rather shocking to note that Spintwitches Sporting Needs had gotten themselves back up so quickly, as well.

Maybe he'd check them out sometime.

"Your hand, Harry!"

Harry looked up into Dumbledore. "Side-along?" He received no answer, just the fucking twinkling eyes.

Grumbling, Harry entwined his hand with Dumbledore and felt his body compress as the usual sensation of Side-Apparition overcame him.

They landed without a pop, and Harry immediately began glancing around, trying to figure out where the hell Dumbledore'd brought him. It was very familiar, actually—

In fact, he'd been here just a month ago or so.

12 Grimmauld Place. Funny, that. Harry'd been certain when he'd cajoled Fudge into letting him go in the summer that he'd most definitely not be sitting foot within this place ever again.

Holy Merlin, this place was depressing!

There were literally cobwebs and shit dangling from the roof. Harry even thought he made out some spiders. Now, Harry generally wasn't much of a wuss but the spiders—and the whole place really—really brought back some rather shitty memories to mind.

And the curiousity on the people's face seated around the dining table was hardly helping.

Dumbledore had gone to take a seat at the head of the table. Harry, however, chose to go to stand with Fred and George, who'd been smiling up at him. Harry exchanged quick fist-bumps with the Twins, and gave a sneer at Fletcher, chuckling when the midget glanced away sharply, a shudder going through him.

"Wanna introduce us, Albus?" The speaker was a man, a scarred man. It was harder to find parts of his face that didn't have scars than parts that did. Half of his nose was gone, he had a freaking magical eye that had been spinning around wildly but was now pretty focused on him, getting wider as it took him...

Harry slowly began smiling. "Really think that's necessary, Mad-Eye?" He was fully smirking now. It'd been a while since they'd run to one another, yes—couple of years, actually—but Harry didn't think Mad-Eye'd forgotten him that quickly. It really wasn't at all surprising that Alastor, freaking "Mad-Eye" Moody found himself in the Order of Phoenix.

Mad-Eye's eyes narrowed, and Harry felt his insides squirm. "Do I know you, kid?"

Harry smirked, bristling on the inside. "I don't know, Mad-Eye. Do you...?"

Mad-Eye was quiet now, observing Harry with rapt attention. Harry chuckled and turned to the Twins. "Only took 'em four years to forget the Silver Boy, and you wonder why they retired his arse..." he muttered under his breath.

Fred and George snorted at that, earning themselves a sullen glare from Mad-Eye.

"Come, now, Harry—you told me you wanted to be treated like an adult, not some "common student"..." Dumbledore held Harry's eye. "Well, this is the Order of the Phoenix."

Harry glanced around.

He didn't recognize a whole lot of people. He picked out the Twins' Mum, looking at him with this look of disapproval which Harry chuckled at. It was more surprising to see parents looking at him with approval than without it.

"What's he here for, anyways Dumbledore? How old is he, the poor dear? Seventeen? He's just a child!"

"I'm a full-blown adult!" Harry was indignant. "I can do what the bloody hell I want, I'll have you know. And besides, the day any of you go and bloody duel the freaking Dark Lord, you give me a hoot, yeah?"

Mrs. Weasley was hardly impressed—neither were many of the rest. Harry couldn't be arsed.

Dumbledore's eyes were twinkling like mad and he was actually smiling like he found the whole thing pretty fucking funny.

"Molly, please—like Harry, himself, said, he is indeed an adult and more than capable of making his own... decisions." Harry scowled at the slight stutter. "And Harry, I will ask that you be more respectful towards our members..." The warning in itself was friendly enough but Harry needed just glance at Dumbledore to know how serious he was. His eyes weren't even twinkling anymore.

That girl that Harry'd cursed on his way to the Shrieking Shack was sizing him up with a frown. Or, at least Harry thought it was the same girl. She had the same heart-shaped face, and the same dark twinkling eyes—the hair was mousy brown, though.

"Hang on; it is you!" She looked a lot less angry than she sounded which amused Harry. "Merlin's shaggy balls—"

Gasps went off.

"Tonks!" someone said scoldingly.

"I thought I recognized you from somewhere! You're that bloody kid from Hogsmead! Why didn't you tell me it was Harry freaking Potter we were after, that night?" Harry smirked.

Quiet whispers shot off as people began discussing the revelation.

Dumbledore cleared his thraot and the place returned to silence, all heads dutifully turning to face _the great Albus Dumbledore_. Harry snorted and ignored the funny looks he got.

"Thank you. My guest on this occasion is indeed a one Harry Potter. He will be listening in on this meeting. Please..." And here Dumbledore seemed to focus on Snape

—Then on this man with a gaunt face, sunken skin, and there was this faint scent of stale drink around him, and his clothes were all crumpled like he'd had them on for like a week.

The man beside him nudged him and gave him something of a warning glance, and Harry took his eyes off the man, a tad unnerved and shaken by their staring contest.

"So what? He's not joining the Order, then? I noted that you said he'd be 'listening in'..."

Harry raised a brow at the man. His shabby wizarding robes and his properly zonked out state, as well—not to mention he was really pale and he definitely looked like was ill—didn't exactly suggest he was really all that there upstairs...

"Yes, Remus—Harry wanted to reserve judgement from an unbiased perspective. Isn't that right, Harry?"

Harry scowled as heads suddenly turned his way. He could legit smell the suspicion—Mad-Eye reeked of it—and confusion coming off them as they glared into him. He gave a sharp nod and glanced away.

 _Thanks alot, Dumbledore!_

"Hang on—you're that kid!"

Harry couldn't help but grin at Mad-Eye. The man's magical-eye had snapped towards him so fast that it popped out of his eye and landed on the table wth a soft 'plop.'

Harry couldn't have held his snort in even if he'd tried.

Funnily enough—turns out, Mad-Eye's glaring was alright even with the one eye. Harry had very little difficulty admitting to himself that scared lil' seven year-old him would've legit straight-up pissed all over himself right there looking into the empty socket—no sweat!

Seventeen-year old Harry's heart was sprinting really fast—like he was on a broom, diving for a snitch or some other tosh. His arse was on a stool in a dining room with a bunch of idiots who probably thought anything more dangerous than a fucking stunner should be illegal, and yet his heart seemed to think he was dueling Voldemort a-fucking-gain.

Bril—the things looking into an empty eye-socket could to fuck up a lad.

"We're gonna have a really nice, long chat after this meeting, me and you—yer hear me, laddie? Just me and you—Merlin, I should've had yer ass carted off to Azkaban the minute I saw yer crawling in Knocturn."

Harry smirked. The way he spoke—Mad-Eye was blaming himself for what Harry'd turned into, was he?

Hilarious!

"Maybe if you'd gotten another crack at that silver before the Ministry retired your arse..."

Mad-Eye couldn't have glared any harder. "Oh, laddie—you'll be lucky to escape our meeting with all your limbs."

Harry snorted. "What're you going for, then? Coming out of _anything_ with your bits intact must be a roaring success from where you're standing." Fred and George burst out laughing beside him and he could clearly see people deliberately trying to hold in their laughs all around the table.

Mad-Eye huffed. "Fucking Silver Boy!" he muttered.

The rest of the Order seemed to have loads to input to that, though. Harry couldn't help but wonder if they were usually this slow to react... If so, it definitely explained why Voldemort was having so much of a field day with the whole war debacle...

"What?!"

"...The criminal?"

"...Oh, the poor lad..."

"...Didn't they catch him a while back?" Harry snorted at that, catching Mad-Eye's eyes. Thankfully, he'd shoved his magical eye right back into the socket. It really helped sit Harry's stomach in order. He'd just had supper not half an hour ago—he really didn't fancy it coming back out so soon.

The Ministry'd really pushed that narrative far, though, hadn't they? Judging by the way Mad-Eye was frowning—he even managed to get the bloke who opened his mouth to spew such rubbish to squeak and duck his head much to Harry's and the twins amusement—Harry was going to go ahead and assume Mad-Eye was still seething 'bout the whole getting forcefully retired episode.

"Enough!" Dumbledore roared. "We'll discuss this at a later date, is that clear?"

"Woah, now, hold your hippogriffs—I never said any of this was true. You're just gonna go ahead then and assume that I'm the Silver Boy—one of the most notorious criminals of the century, by the way—just because this barmy old retired Auror said so?"

Harry felt a very warm feeling of pride cloud him as mutterings broke out.

"...He doesn't exactly look like 'em, now, does he?"

"I mean, what are the chances that Harry Potter's also the bloody Silver Boy?"

"He's just a child, after all, isn't he?!"

Harry scowled at Mrs. Weasley's words—but figured he was better off letting that particular one go, no matter how much it stung.

"We'll see, laddie..." Mad-Eye wagged his one good brow at Harry—his other one Harry'd singed off. He smirked at the memory. "I'm gonna be there at this "meeting", Albus, yer hear?"

Harry wasn't too sure if Mad-Eye was asking or telling Dumbledore. Either way, he wasn't too happy with it. "Now, hold on, one second—"

"Just why does Mad-Eye need to be there at all?"

"Well, Black—" Snape began.

"Oh, stuff it, Snivellus! No one asked you to butt in, how about you go take a good shower?" There was a bit of tittering and Harry struggled to look neutral. Snape was already doing his best to complicate life at Hogwarts, as it was. He really didn't need to put more wood under the fire.

"People!... Now that that's settled..." There was a bit of shuffling and shifting on chairs and a whole lot of blushing, and apologetic faces and Harry snorted. Dumbledore looked like a grandfather scolding his grand-children at the top of his table.

Dumbledore glanced to his left. "Severus, if you don't mind..."

Snape cleared his throat, and then took a moment to glare around as if he found it very important to show just how much he detested every single person present before he began speaking.

"The Dark Lord continues to insist that he most certainly doesn't have any knowledge of the Zabini girl. He has voiced his belief that this was a rogue Death-Eater holding a grudge against the Zabini family—Dogweed and Deathcap was one of the Hogsmead shops to be burnt to the ground, if you remember. It also happens to the only shop on the Isles that sells any potion with the Death-cap in it..."

That seemed to somber up the congregation, so Harry—following suit—bit his cheeks to stop from smiling.

Some people harbouring a grudge on the Zabini's. He was so gonna have to get that back to Andrew and the rest. Maybe if he and Draco and Theodore snuck out tonight... The big exchange was meant to be at midnight, tonight, either way, wasn't it?

Mad-Eye was speaking now with his gruff voice. "... checks out all very well and all, I know, Albus—but just think, these Death-Eater managed to best Snape over there—"

"Cheap shot!" Snape glowered at Mad-Eye.

"Can't believe the day's here—a Slytherin's actually whining about a cheap-shot." Harry allowed himself to show some amusement at that; after all, a fair amount of people laughed at the gaunt-faced bloke's jest. It was also probably really unlikely Snape could pick him out in such a crowd—after all, over here, he was hardly the only one Snape seemed to loathe.

Like the bloke who'd gone ahead and jested Snape about his getting cheap-shotted. Snape looked like he was trying to straight-up murder the geezer with his eyes—forget the wand!

"Point is, these rogue Death Eaters—whoever they are—couldn't possibly have slipped under the radar that long. I mean, one of them actually managed to make Fiendfyre—"

"That's not too difficult, though—"

"He had it under control, laddie!" The Weasley who'd dared open his mouth gulped and shut it right back up. He was rewarded for his trouble, though—this stunning witch behind him softly rubbed his shoulder, whispering things in his ear. It seemed to have worked, because the Weasley was smiling not long after, his eyes positively shining.

"... wretched control out of his hands—and that's another thing I would love to know; who were those people who fought them?"

"My brother informs me that they were having a drink at his Inn when they caught sight of the fire—"

"And they felt it was their duty to help out?" Snape sounded skeptical. Harry couldn't blame him. In his experience, that was generally never the actual driving force.

"Well, obviously, they wanted to help out!" The female looked affronted that somebody wouldn't want to help out.

Nobody bothered countering her and for a few seconds, silence weighed down on them.

"You don't understand, Hestia—most people cannot combat Fiendfyre. The recommended action by the Ministry when one sees Fiendfyre is to run...—"

"Yeah, I get that, Remus—but we all know the Ministry's just a bunch of tossers actually making life a whole lot worse for all of us!" The woman finished with a flourish. A round of "Hear, hear!" and general agreement went about. "No offense, Shackelbolt!"

"None taken—if the Ministry actually allowed us Aurors to do our job, we could at least keep Azkaban half full!"

"Hestia," the shrewd man from before began and Harry sat up, taking up interest, "whilst I do agree that the Ministry's just garbage—"

Noises of agreement, all round.

"We also must factor in the sheer number of people who have no idea how to properly handle Fiendfyre. Fleeing Fiendfyre isn't really special now, is it? I mean, in all plain honesty, how many of us here today can handle Fiendfyre?" Not many people dared to look into the man's feral eyes.

"Yes, well, not all of us can teach Defense..."

The man smiled and for a moment he looked almost normal, like someone in his late twenties. "Point taken, Arthur."

"So... so what?! So yeah, we've got two blokes who can control Fiendfyre—"

"Very advanced magic, Emmeline," Dumbledore said, fingers entwined. He was looking very serious for once, taking off his glasses and wiping them with his robes. "This is a big concern because these two are probably very talented wizards and if they are indeed siding with Voldemort... the scales are tipped even less in our favour."

Dumbledore's words seemed to have sucked all the hope and joy out of the room, leaving people exchanging gloomy glances with each other.

"Well, now, hold on one second—we've still got Harry bleeding Potter, haven't we? I mean, he's the Chosen One, right?" Harry scowled at that. He still couldn't believe the Ministry was actually going ahead with that.

He really needed to give Fudge a hoot. Maybe a Howler'd do it! For sure, he should be getting recompensation for enduring all of this bullshit. And he'd yet to explode, yet. Now, granted he'd just literally weeks ago found out about it because at Hogwarts, Theodore almost forced him to read the paper every fucking day. But still—Fudge and the Ministry really needed Harry, didn't they? Good publicity and all that good shite was really important to those guys high up there, wasn't it?

Chosen One! What a load of tosh!

"He's just a boy!" Harry scowled at Mrs. Weasley's words.

"I'm seventeen!"

"Practically a baby!" Mad-Eye growled.

"Oi, round the bend, are you?!" Gasps went off and muttering flailed him. "And you're scratching your head, wondering why the Ministry sat your arse on a bin—I fucking duelled Voldemort to a stalemate, you dense thck-headed—"

Mad-Eye leapt to his feet and his eye popped out of his socket again. And this time, Harry didn't even flinch inside all that much. "Oi, you best keep your tongue in check when you're talking to me, laddie! I will not be disrespected—"

"Respect is earned, not given!"

"Oh, I'll earn your respect alright!" Mad-Eye growled—and then his wand was in his palm in a blink of an eye—

They didn't get much done in the way of progress after that. A furious Harry made towards the Floo right after the meeting was done but Dumbledore had other plans.

That gaunt bloke with the matted hair from back at the meeting was with him. His friend that looked ill was shifting nervously from foot to foot, remaining behind.

"There's someone I'd like you to meet, Harry."

Harry appraoched them with narrowed eyes. "Haven't I met enough people on your behalf?" Just last week, it'd been Slughorn at a "meeting to see how they could help him with Potions."

Now, granted getting that memory for Dumbledore had been relatively easy once Harry had turned all cold against Slughorn but still—there wasn't exactly too much common ground between persuading someone to give up a memory and a meeting to help with Potions.

Harry'd only kept it in because Dumbledore went ahead and assured him that the memory was crucial to this Hocrux mess. Next week's Riddle meeting was gonna be very interesting; Harry couldn't wait.

Dumbledore chuckled and made so that Harry followed him. Harry spared the gaunt-man a glance. "I think you'll enjoy this one."

Harry snorted. "Now, there's something you don't hear everyday..."

The man grinned, showing Harry his yellow teeth—but Harry could glimpse something of old handsomeness lurking behind the gauntness on his face. Dumbledore shuffled them into the library, and Harry began glancing around, taking in the dark tomes with some interest.

"My family were a real dark lot..."

That stole Harry's attention away from _101 Ways to Castrate a Man._ "You're a Black?"

The man fidgeted, looking to Dumbledore for directions. "Harry—Sirius, here, is your godfather—"

"Sirius Black?!"

The man forced a grin. "In the flesh."

Harry just stood there, stunned, not exactly sure what to make of all of this. One thing, he did know, though—he couldn't get his wand out fast enough!

* * *

Harry and Andrew were leaning against the lamppost—like they'd planned. Liza and Emily were just round the bend, on the off-chance that things ended up going south. It was always nice having a throwback plan, made you feel all warm and fuzzy inside when an absolute bellend decided to whip out a gun and make you stare down the barrel.

Draco and Theodore were actually lounging back at DHQ, ready to interrogate their kidnapee—sometimes, Harry really envied those two. Of course, they were absolutely useless when it came to muggle business but still—you'd think they'd at least just once have been forced to be exposed to the harsh reality of the Muggle street-life. You know, considering they'd been involved with them for about six years now.

"Bollocks," Andrew was saying, "you mean to tell me that Sirius Black didn't actually rat your parents out to You-Know-Who?"

Harry made a noise of agreement, rubbing his hands together. He probably should've had warmer clothes on than the jeans and the T-shirt he had on that read 'Can you smell what the Rock's cooking'—but there wasn't a whole lot he could do about that right now. "Turns out it was Pettigrew—another friend of my father's," he elaborated when Andrew started looking lost.

Andrew took a puff of his cigarrette. "Ain't that the one who snagged himself an Order of Merlin for getting blown up?"

Harry blew a breath out, his eyes skittering about, looking for any sign of Pyrites. There were like no cars on the road, and the only sounds at this time of the night came from pubs nearby.

"Yeah, First Class even—"

Andrew whistled.

"Apparently he staged the whole thing, though. It was pretty fucked up, man."

Andrew turned to frown at Harry. "What if Black's just faking the whole shit, man? I mean, it sounds unbelievable as fuck to me, man—Pettigrew living as an animagus for that long and Sirius Black breaks out just to catch him? How can you even be sure he's not just trying to take advantage of the whole I'm your god-father shit. Sounds a bit dodgy to me, if I'm being honest."

Harry chuckled. "Yeah, but he actually just went ahead and showed me memories in his Pensieve so... What time's it anyway? It's getting awfully dark."

Andrew took another drag. "Almost midnight. He ought to be here soon. So, Black rotted away all them years in Azkaban for no reason, then?"

Harry made a noise of agreement; he'd had plenty of time to come to terms with it. "Pretty fucked up, innit?"

Andrew drew one long, last puff from his cigarette and then put it out with his feet. "I'd 'a broken out a hella lot sooner if it'd been me."

Harry snorted. "Don't doubt it. You know the Ministry's actually still got him down as the one who killed the Dursleys?"

Andrew burst out laughing. He stopped laughing after a good while when he realized Harry wasn't laughing with him—but wondering why Andrew was laughing. "You're not having me on?!" Harry shook his head. "The Ministry's gone bloody mental, I tell ya. I can't believe they never figured out that was you. Two botched-up investigations in the space of—what? Fourteen years? Fucking ludricous! And you wonder why I never applied for a job at the Ministry. Bet you I'd get in, no sweat, if I actually wanted."

Harry snorted. "Momentarily, maybe. They'd have to be thicker than any player actually willing to sign with the Cannons not to lay your sorry arse off after a couple of hours, at most!"

Harry had to duck the knuckle sandwich that Andrew served him.

Andrew was quite the weedy lad—and he looked much younger than his twenty-three-years which was rather odd since he was a were-wolf and all—but yeah, but he could thump right hard.

"Oi, what's up with you tryna twat me?"

Andrew snorted. "That's for being a git. Gellert still seething 'bout the whole Figg fiasco, by the way?"

Harry shrugged. "Yeah, he was really brassed off when he found out. I'm pretty safe here in the Isles, though—he fancies himself a bloody young man reborn down there in Italy or whatever he's forcing the elves to feed him in his Manor." Harry shrugged when Andrew turned to face him, looking really dubious. "Load of bollocks, obviously—but I bet you're not about to volunteer to go down to Italy and tell Gellert that to his face, now, are you?"

Andrew shifted his feet. "You bet your arse I'm not. He's a right self-righteous, thick-headed bastard—I'm sorry but it's true, and you know it, too." Andrew avoided Harry's eyes.

"Yeah..." Harry sighed. "Quit doing that, will you—I'm not likely to go running off, squealing on you like some nancy-boy, now, am I?" Andrew didn't respond, still rather stony and Harry huffed. "Mate, I'm the bloody gaffer now, what the fuck am I gonna go running off to Gellert for?" He couldn't even speak Italian for fuck's sake—wouldn't even have a chance to get a snog, let alone a nice shag. They did have some very tidy women, now, down in Italy, didn't they?

"He sees you as a son, doesn't he? Bet you see 'em as a Dad, as well." Was that jealousy he was hearing? Right, he was going to handle that properly later.

"So what if he practically raised me? What're you trying to say?" Andrew glanced at him, and then glanced away, shaking his head, muttering something under his breath but it was too low for Harry to catch any of it. "No, spit it out. If you've got summin' to say, I wanna hear it!"

Andrew shrugged. "I'm just saying—if it'd been me who'd properly gone ahead and cocked it up with Figg, he'd have fucking torn me a new one and—"

"Hang on—just what the fuck d'you think he did to me then?" he snarled, running an agitated hand through his hair. "Invted me over so the two of us could get shitfaced or some other random rot?"

Andrew shrugged again. "I'm just saying, if it'd been me he'd have began hurling AK's the minute I landed in Italy."

Harry just raised a brow.

"Oh, get stuffed, Harry—that didn't happen and you know it! You'd be dead if it did."

"What? Is it so much of a stretch to think I could best Grindewald?" he quipped.

Andrew didn't even utter a word, he just continued to look into Harry with an arched brow.

"Oh, sod off, yeah? Let me remind you that I handed Voldemort's arse to him in a fucking package, so... so yeah! I'm alright with a wand, I'd say—"

"Mate, you got really lucky and you know it—"

"I'm not the one who was struggling with some fucking Death-Eaters! I mean, when was your last Death-Eater capture, huh, Andrew? Couple of months, innit? Been a rather quiet summer for you in that department, hasn't it?"

Andrew growled at him. "When was the last time you came on a fucking mission, you... Ever since you became gaffer, it's really been all partying, and getting sloshed, hasn't it?"

Harry glared up at Andrew. "You watch your mouth, Andrew—Voldemort's tryna kill me, I'll have you know."

Andrew rolled his eyes. "Oh, sure—Harry bleeding Potter, can't be arsed about showing up for missions 'cos guess what? You know the dark geezer who's kinda the fucking leader of the bloody group we're tryna take down? He really wants to fuck Harry over, doesn't he? Poor baby Potter." He made some fake crying noises. "Boo-hoo, mate, shitty life, stop whinging about it already!"

Harry huffed, blowing the hair out of his eyes, his fists all clenched and he was breathing rather heavily.

"Yeah, well at least I've actually got some actual fucking ample cause behind my shite. You're just fucking pissed off because you're twenty-fucking-three this year and you've been with Versace—what? almost your whole fucking life, innit?—and guess who comes along and gets crowned gaffer? Harry fucking Potter, that's who—the fucking kid you fucking recruited a whole fucking decade ago. But guess what? The kid's better than you now, isn't he?"

Andrew didn't hold back as he pulled his fist back and twatted him in the face. Harry staggered from the blow and when he'd properly recovered, he saw Andrew at the junction, almost out of sight.

"Yeah, go on then—run away, you fucking twat!" Andrew stiffened at that and Harry rubbed his nose and swore when he realized it was broken. When he glanced back up, Andrew was nowhere in sight.

His Mirror vibrated.

It was Emily.

"Harry?" She was frowning. "You alright? Where the bloody hell's Andrew stormed off to? And what's up with your nose? Dunno if you've noticed but there's blood streaming out of it. It's two to midnight, by the way—just thought you should know."

Harry rolled his eyes. "Oh wow, really helpful, Em."

"It's what I'm here for, after all," she deadpanned. "No, but in all seriousness, though—what the bloody fuck's going on? I'm legit worried, right now."

A new face blurred into sight. "Andrew get his knickers in a twist about you getting the gaffer position again?"

"What the fuck?!—has this happened before then?"

Liza yawned. "Man, I'm knackered. What? Yeah, of course, it has—not to you, obviously, but he's been crying about it to me and Emily for a right long while. So why'd _you_ blow up at him for a change?"

"He was beng a right foul blindered twat—he's lucky he got off with all his limbs in tact."

Liza started cackling and Harry glared at her through the Mirror. "I'm sorry, it's just rather ironic, isn't it?—that you're calling him lucky and yet you're bleeding from your nose like a slaughtered cow." She went on cackling and Harry snarled.

"You're in position, right?"

"Yeah, yeah, Harry—have some faith, would you?" Emily said as Liza went on laughing. Completely off her rocker, that one. Emily loaded her gun.

"You know, I never asked but I reckon Dumbledore's been in a right fit 'cos of you."

Harry smirked. "Hey, what's a few more grey hairs, know what I mean?" Emily laughed.

"Been one hell of a summer, hasn't it?"

Harry shrugged. "Eventful, for sure."

A crack rippled through the sky. "Alright, Em, gotta go—where the fuck's Liz at?!"

"Keep your damn head on, will ya?!" Liza grumbled at him through the mirror and then his screen went blank.

"Right." Harry pocketed his mirror and tailed the man who'd just apparated down the street with his eyes, making sure to look like he couldn't give any fucks, leaning against the lamppost. He didn't whistle—he figured that'd be stretching it.

The man began walking determinedly down towards him and Harry saw—much to his delight—that he had a duffel bag in hand. He stopped in front of Harry. "You him?"

Harry turned to face him.

He got to Harry's nose. And he was dressed in a muggle business suit, though the effect was ruined with his long hair. The bloke also looked really uncomfortable in the suit, glancing around him with skittering eyes, and Harry could literally smell the nerves on him.

Harry smirked. "Him? Who's _him_?" The man frowned at him as he pushed off the lamppost and closed the gap between them. "D'you have my memories, Marius?"

The man swallowed thickly and nodded curtly. Harry smiled. "Good, now hand it over really nicely."

In one swift motion, the man brought out a gun—and was pointing it directly in the spot between his eyes. His hand was shaking a bit.

Harry sneered. "D'you even know how to use that thing? You think—"

"Doesn't matter what I think! Doesn't matter! I've got a gun, and you can't get your wand out that fast—you fuck this up and you're gone. Lights out!" Harry scowled. Every fucking time some fucker just had to go ahead and pull of some dodgy stuff. Why couldn't these fuckers ever keep their word?

"Now, here's how this shit's gonna go down!"

Harry swallowed, making sure to do his best to look really nervous and shaky. It was hard to, really, when he knew that a couple of storeys above them, Emily was waiting for a signal to pull the trigger. "What'd you want?"

Another crack sounded—and another bloke came swaggering down. This one was in wizarding robes. He hadn't bothered, at all with the whole blending in ruse that his mate had taken his time to implement. He let out a delighted laugh when he saw what was going on and slapped his comrade on the back.

Funny, that—Sanguini and his clan had assured Harry that they'd be taking care of Teffington for him.

Perhaps, he needed to go have a nice little chat with with the vampires—remind them not to muck about with their promises, thank you very much. Besides, it'd been a while since he'd met up with Camilla—the little tease princess—and since Ginerva was being difficult... yeah, that sounded bril.

Teffington made sure to sneer into Harry's face—obviously, he remembered Harry. Shame, that. "So, we meet again—right funny stunt you were tryna pull of over here, mate," he spat that last word out with some force. "Thought you could one-up us, did ya?" Harry grimaced at all the spite his face was collecting.

He pulled his head back and showed the man his teeth, all the while jutting out his thumb in a thumbs-up. "You know—"

Teffington suddenly groaned, and his eyes wide, clutching his stomach, fell to the ground—

Marius glanced around wildly and his hand with the gun fell limp—

And then a shot went off—but luckily enough, at least from Marius's perspective anyway, he'd left that very spot the second before.

So, he lived on. Yet another shame.

Harry's wand holster spat out his wand with a thought and Harry gave it a rigid flick. Expelliarmus.

The gun felt rather nice in Harry's left hand.

He pointed the gun at Marius—who made sure to hold his hands out, practically begging Harry not to pull the trigger—and trained his wand on Teffington. "Now, here's how this shit's actually gonna go down—"

Before Harry could get any more words out, Teffington shot some sickly yellow curse his way and he was forced to duck and back-pedal as the two gave chase after him.

He shot off a _Aufero Praecius_ over his back—which, considering if it landed, of course, caused internal bleeding—should've deterred Teffington, but the bloke just side-stepped the shadowy tornado-like beam of light and shot off a Killing Curse.

Classic Death-Eater move, Harry thought as he easily side-stepped the emerald-green curse and give his wand a ruthless slash over his shoulder as he continued to back-pedal and the two gave chase and thought _Kowiou_.

A groan sounded and the footfalls slowed behind Harry. He whirled around to take in the scene. They were about a whole block further ahead from where the original deal'd been suppose to take place.

That meant that Emily was probably out of range to take these two blighters out. Which meant it was up to him to wrap this shite up all by himself. Joyous.

Thankfully, it seemed his _Kowiou_ had caught Marius out. Why else would the geezer be lying on the ground and Teffington be kneeling beside him. And was the idiot fucking begging Marius to hold on. Funny, that—obviously he didn't know that particular cutting curse wasn't fatal.

Harry raised his wand to finish Teffington—

But then suddenly, Teffington went all rigid and then slumped on top of his partner.

Harry glanced around wildly, wand and gun out at the ready—never know when it was a chap just looking to clean house, after all.

It was just Andrew, however. Looking very sheepish. "Thought you could use the help," he said as he came to stand before Harry.

Harry lowered his wand and his gun. He sneered at the boy. "Really? Did you, now? Took you long enough to come back to your senses." He walked towards Marius and Teffington and Andrew followed him.

He prodded Teffington with his wand. "Petrificus Totalus?"

"Yeah."

"Right. Pick him up." Andrew bent down and pulled Teffington off of his mate. Liza and Emily came running down the street, meanwhile, and Harry whirled to face them, a few words on his mind.

"So, what—you two were alright just letting these two shoot hexes and bullets my way?"

Liza was far from apologetic. "Hey, you're still alive!—dunno what's got in you a tizzy."

Harry gaped at her in disbelief. "Right. Right. How about the fact that—"

"See what I have to deal with during missions, mate?"

"I'm still right pissed off at you, Andrew, so belt it up, yeah?"

"Just saying—I've got it pretty hard."

"Stuff it, you!"

"See? Tell me that's not downright dodgy—"

"Well now," Theodore cut him off, "this doesn't prove a whole lot, now, does it?"

"What the fuck are you about?" Draco roared, pointing to the scene playing out in front of them. "Don't you see him climbing up the stairs pretty fucking fast, looking down at the Map for directions."

"So that suddenly means he's hiding something?"

Draco wasn't amused. "Mate, this is legit proof that Harry was hiding something."

Theodore rolled his eyes and gave chase after Harry as the boy climbed up the seventh floor. "No, this just proves that he was out looking for something today."

"And I'll bet you all the Malfoy gold—"

"D'you even still have that?"

"—That this has a fair bit to do with whatever the fuck actually happened on that night."

"Oh, for fuck's sake—you're not stilll holding on that bollocks theory about Harry not actually getting hexed by Snape, are you?"

"It's not bollocks!—you don't actually think Snape could take him, do you?"

Theodore shrugged. "Well, I suppose if he got lucky, he could—and Harry was probably really distracted on that night, not looking all around and shit. What's he doing pacing around?"

Draco shrugged at him. He hadn't been able to figure that out, either. "Dunno. The Map led him here, I'm guessing—and that's another point I wanna make, he was obviously following someone—"

"Like you were following him, you mean."

Draco waved Theodore's words off, bristling slightly. "Necessities, mate, you know that. Anyway, he was obviously following someone because why else would you need the Map? I'm thinking he lost the person—"

"But that's not possible—"

"Yeah, I fucking know that, alright, now shut up and listen to my two Knuts! I reckon he wasn't looking at the Map too closely, obviously lost her—"

"What makes you think it's a her he was following?"

"What? You think Harry bailed on us for a fucking bloke? I'm pretty fucking sure Harry isn't a bender—"

"That'd be hilarious."

"I know, right? Anyway, I reckon he wasn't watching the Map too closely and lost track of her so when he goes off to the seventh floor—"

The ground shook and a tremor went through them and the two shared a glance. "Shit. They're back." Draco knew very well what the shuddering meant—somebody was coming through the wards.

Draco raised his hands up and allowed the currents in the Pensieve to carry him back up. Theodore landed next to him a second later, and Draco drew out his wand and conjured a flask.

"Was that the end of the memory?" Theodore asked him.

"Pretty much." Draco carefully levitated the memory out of the Pensieve and into the flask. The last thing he needed was for Harry to realize that Draco was onto him. He quickly stuffed the flask into his pocket and just about then, Harry materialised before them with a bloody—like he was actually bleeding—Marius in hand.

A second later, Andrew apparated in beside him with Teffington in hand. And then, Liza popped in—Emily cringing beside her, holding a duffel bag. Liza wasn't known for being tender with her side-Apparitions.

Draco raised a brow. "Dunno if it's just me but this wasn't exactly the plan, now, was it?" Theodore voiced Draco's thoughts.

Harry snorted and pushed Marius into the pre-pepared chair they'd set up for the interrogation. Invisible chains suddenly closed around Marius and he struggled for a good while. "Got the potion?"

Draco went into the wooden cabinet propped up against the wall and dug it out for Harry, who forced the clear, colourless, and odourless potion—sometimes Draco struggled to see the difference between Veritaserum and water—down Marius's throat. The bloke thrashed for a good while as the potion flowed through his blood stream, dampening his magic and rendering him little better than a fucking Squib.

Very handy potion when you were trying to get answers out of a guy. Illegal, as well, of course—at least, in the way that they were using it. Thankfully, there was little to no chance that the Ministry actually ended up finding out about this.

And it was bloody expensive.

But it was totally worth it when after three whole minutes, Marius suddenly stilled and he blinked his eyes, looking dazed. "What the fuck've you done to him?" Teffington asked.

Draco turned around and nodded. Liza and Andrew apparated out of the place immediately and Emily went on ahead and actually just winged it—muggle-style. She just placed her legs around the pole and pulled herself up.

Harry went and grabbed Marius's mate—Teffington and dumped him in the other chair, as well. "What the hell is he doing here, anyway?" That hadn't been the plan. That seemed to be happening quite alot these days come to think of it.

Harry shrugged. "Might wanna ask his friend that."

Theodore squatted before Marius—and the man immediately tried to give Theodore's face a good kick. To his credit, Theodore didn't flinch—probably because he knew the chains would close up around Marius before he could connect with Theodore. Which it did.

"So, Marius, pretty shitty day, eh?" Theodore began. "Bet this wasn't exactly how you planned your Saturday, is it?"

Draco snorted as Harry conjured a stuffy sofa for himself and got comfortable.

It was time to dance now. They'd play hard—they always did. But in the end, they'd get the dirt on the rest of the Death-Eaters. And they'd have the information they needed.

Draco stroked his wand tentatively. It was a damned good thing he'd already mastered the tracking charm.

* * *

 **Guys, I was kinda wondering—because I already have the plot all planned out in my head—would you guys prefer if I completed the story before posting it or if I continue to slowly update it till the end?**

 **REVIEW, GUYS! THEY REALLY BRIGHTEN UP MY DAYS—REVIEWS!**


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